A Second to Last Chance
by AngstyAly
Summary: Sam Winchester shot himself nine years ago, leaving Adam and Dean to pick up the pieces of their lives and take on their father's hunt for the yellow-eyed demon. Now they've been zapped back into the past, just in time to stop their teenage brother from pulling the trigger.
1. Chapter 1

**_Sam Winchester shot himself nine years ago, leaving Adam and Dean to pick up the pieces of their lives and take on their father's hunt for the yellow-eyed demon. Now they've been zapped back into the past, just in time to save their brother, and fix some of the things they thought would never be fixed._**

**_This was inspired by NoobieNinja's 'Needed' which you can find here: /works/930891_**

**_I shamefully horribly ripped off that brilliant piece of fiction, so you should probably flame me, and hate me for all eternity, but I wrote this a while ago, and I thought 'why not post it'. because it brought me joy to write it._**

* * *

Adam woke to Kansas playing softly on the radio. He must have fallen asleep somewhere in Oklahoma. He wiped at his eyes and took in the scenery. The Impala roared softly under the two Winchester brothers. Dean's music was turned low, soft and lulling.

"I can take over at the next gas station," he offered.

Dean grunted, as much of an answer as he was going to get. Adam pulled the laptop from the backseat and opened the file Bobby had sent them the night before. A routine hunt, witches by the MO and nasty ones at that.

Well, it should be routine, but Dean was as predictable as clockwork at this time of the year. It would start at midnight when he would swing into the nearest hotel and leave Adam to protest weakly as he found the nearest bar, drink himself silly, probably pick a fight with some burly guy playing pool, and then stumble home at noon to sleep off as much of the hangover as possible before climbing back onto a barstool and drink himself to tears again.

Hence the rest Adam had been getting in the car. He hated listening to his oldest brother retch in the bathroom when all he could do is sit on the bed, making no comment. It had been over nine years since Sam's death, and three since their father's.

Sometimes Adam felt that the half-brother thing made things a little harder for the both of them. Sometimes Dean got upset for no reason and kept all the guns locked away. He took Adam out to drink, or to a kid's theme park, or sometimes they just parked the Impala and looked out over the scenery, talking about everything and nothing. They avoided only one subject. Sam.

Adam remembered when he was a kid, and Sam had been this mysterious force of nature, the smartest person Adam ever knew. Sam could plan, and think, and just silently… understand. None of them had ever known he was in trouble until... Well, until Sam as curled up in the bathtub, his brain all over the… all over the…

He swallowed and blinked down at the screen in his lap. It had been nine goddamn years. He wasn't a child anymore. He barely remembered Sam's face, and yet he just kept bringing this stuff up every year. They were never going to get over it if they kept fixating, kept remembering.

Adam closed his eyes, trusting Dean to wake him when they reached the promised gas station.

* * *

**13 Years Ago**

"Sam? Why do we have to move all the time?"

Eleven year old Sam looked over to where his older brother was lying on the next bed and remembered asking him the same question. His hand tightened reflexively on Adam's forehead as he gave the same answer he had received all those years ago, "leave it Adam, you don't wanna know."

His younger brother huffed impatiently, but seemed too tired to follow up. Adam was just starting to see that they weren't like other families. The youngest Winchester was beginning to understand that they were different. He had even realized the hierarchy in the family, was starting to look past (through) Sam to Dean and John.

Sam held his breath and felt the tears burning behind his eyes. He wanted to tighten his arms around his brother again, but didn't want Adam to complain or shift away. He stared into the dimly lit, blank walls of the achingly familiar motel room walls. They were all the same, no matter where the small, strange family went.

His arm was going numb from where Adam was lying on it, but Sam just left it that way. He wanted his little brother to just stay here with him, unknowing, unaware that the monsters were real, that someday he would be expected to face them, to fight them, because nobody else would. A solitary tear tipped over the bridge of his nose and fell into the blankets. He just wanted to grow up away from all this insanity, blood thirst, and a family held together by one revenge. Adam and Dean didn't deserve that.

* * *

**NOW**

Adam and Dean stopped at a hotel, and Dean left immediately, throwing his duffle on the nearest bed and slipping back out of the door with a muffled: "I'll be back soon."

That was a lie. And Dean never lied to him, except of course on this day. The anniversary of Sam's death. Adam dropped his bag next to the bedside table and slumped onto the bed that hadn't been claimed by Dean's duffel.

"Hey Sam," he said to empty room.

The air conditioning switched on, startling him. He laughed shakily, and shook his head.

"Getting paranoid these days," he said, "but that's not your fault Sam. I think I've started to understand why you did it. This whole life is pretty fucked up, and I think… I think I would have done the same thing. Well, I'm thinking—it doesn't matter." He shook his head, looking at the dull green carpet. He remembered Sam, a happy kid with wide eyes and a pout that pissed off and endeared him all at the same time.

"I miss you, and I'm sorry it's been so long since I talked to you, but I thought that maybe not talking to you would stop it from hurting. Of course it hasn't, but it was worth a try, right?" he laughed humorlessly. "I guess I just wanted to tell you that I still love you. I hope you're happier now, I know you've gone somewhere good, where none of this can touch you anymore, even if that meant leaving me—us."

Feeling foolish and a little sappy Adam climbed onto the bed, and switched on the TV. He would wait for Dean to come home, in case his brother needed help finding the bathroom through his haze of alcohol.

* * *

**14 Years Ago**

It was a year later that six-year old Adam faced his first monster— the ghost of a little girl who just wanted a playmate. She stole Adam, enticed him to taking the ribbon cursed with her spirit, and walked him away from the motel room and the safety of his family.

It had been on Sam's watch. He had looked away for a minute, had just left to get them both a soda from the vending machines, and when he had come back Adam was gone. Between Dean trashing the motel room and John's tense, angry questions, Sam felt himself shrink just a little bit smaller, hate himself just a little more.

He waited in the motel room, tense, afraid, and utterly alone, until Dean and John came back with Adam crying like the world had ended. There was no more pretending after that, no more questions that had to go unanswered. Adam had to know the dangers, had to stop trusting and start being very, very afraid.

Sam was the only one the little boy let into the bathroom, and they huddled in the tub together, Sam apologizing over and over for not being able to protect him. Adam cried himself sick, and Sam held onto him, feeling numb.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Adam asked, when he calmed down enough to start speaking.

Sam sighed, ruffling Adam's silky hair, but said nothing. Adam would grow up just like him, hating the life, wondering why it was his fight. Adam slept in the bathroom all night with the light on. Sam watched the crack under the door unblinking, feeling the crushing weight of guilt and sadness. He hated, hated, hated this hell.

The next day they were in the car. Dad and Dean joked in the front, their conversation sounding brittle. Adam stared out of the window the entire day, resisting all attempts at conversation. When they reached Bobby's he disappeared into the house with barely a hello to the hunter. Sam sat at the table and didn't move for a very long time.

"You okay?"

It was Dean, sitting on the counter and munching on an apple. John left a few hours after dropping them off. Either he didn't want to deal with Adam's newfound knowledge, or he just couldn't look at Sam. Sam would bet on the latter, and he hated that it would hurt Adam. The youngest Winchester needed his father and Sam had driven him away.

"Fine," Sam said.

"How's Adam?"

"Getting used to the idea of monsters, still not talking much. What the hell happened last night?" Sam asked. He poured himself a glass of milk and sat at the table like a civilized person. They could hear the sound of Bobby beating some car back into shape, and the tinny strains of some country band keeping him company.

He thought for a moment that his brother wasn't going to answer, but Dean broke the comfortable silence quickly, as if he had to force the words out. "Dad told him about the ghoul that got his mother."

Sam nodded glumly, he had suspected as much. "And the ghost?"

"Tried to push him off a cliff to keep him around as a ghost. Dad nearly didn't get there in time."

Sam cringed, feeling the ice clench around his heart. If he had just been watching as carefully as he should have been, none of this would have happened, Adam would be playing outside, trying to find something to show Dean.

The eldest Winchester sibling seemed to sense some of Sam's thoughts, because he slipped off the counter and joined him at the table.

"It's not your fault Sam. That little bitch killed a few hunters before we got there, she knew how to cover her tracks."

Sam shrugged, not meeting Dean's eyes. He swallowed his glass of milk, trying to rid himself of the feeling that maybe they would all be better off without him. Dean had made sure that Sam didn't learn about the things that went bump in the night until he could handle it.

Here was Sam, going through the same trials as his older brother, but he was failing every test.

Sam was just going to get everyone killed, the same way that he had gotten his mother killed… just by being there. He was a menace, a danger, and at some level he knew he was never going to change. Not the way John and Dean wanted him to.

Everything else was going to change now.

And it did.

* * *

**NOW**

Dean stumbled back into the room, and Adam was on his feet, clicking the TV off. His older brother was back hours before he should be, not that Adam was complaining He was getting pretty lonely and he always worried about Dean.

But his older brother wasn't even drunk. His nose was bleeding, and his left eye was swelling under a nasty black bruise. Dean scrambled against the door, locking it and drawing the curtains. Adam was up and at his side, checking the windows.

"What is it?" he asked, tense.

"I have no idea," Dean said "Where are the weapons?"

"Under the sink. What happened?"

"I was walking to the bar, something… some kind of creature came barreling past me. Shit just started vanishing."

"Vanishing? Adam asked, trying to recall what kind of monster could do that. He busied himself with checking the salt lines and the charms.

"I don't know Adam!" Dean looked crazed, he was tucking Ruby's knife into his jeans and loading bullets into the rock-salt shotgun. "I could barely see it, it was moving so fast. People, cars, a freaking fire hydrant—"

"Fire hydrant? What?"

But Dean was shushing him, waving his hand violently, and peering out of the crack between the curtains. Silence. In the distance, a dog barked and a car screeched into a turn. Suddenly a the light flooding in from one of the streetlamps winked out.

The Winchester brothers stepped back, Dean's gun pointed to the door, Adam's to their one window. Again, silence. A moment of stillness, of hushed breathing. Nothing had been this intent on hunting them before, not crazed enough to attack in the open at the Winchester's base of operations. There was no time for research, no time for questions, or mistakes.

It came through the door. A shadow. The door was simply _gone_, as if it had never existed, the hinges still attached neatly to the doorframe, the curtains barely whispering. Dean got off the first shot, but it didn't even stop the creature. Its blue-black hide was unmarked, and the knotted hair dangling from its head was swung against it's human-like shoulders as it swept around the room. A bed vanished, then a lamp, the radiator. Adam shot at it, but couldn't be sure if it even touched the creature as it whispered by.

"Adam!" Dean cried, and Adam was swung by the shoulder into the tight bathroom. They shut the door, but both of them knew that couldn't really stop whatever it was. There were bangs and crashed coming from their room. It had barreled through their wards like nothing Adam had ever seen.

"What do we do?" he asked Dean, his hands shaking on the gun. It wouldn't work against whatever it was, and they had nothing else, nothing at all.

He barely had time to glance over at his brother's horrified face before the bathroom door disappeared and they were confronted by the creature. It lunged across the empty space to Adam, and he had time for one shot, which simply disappeared, before the creature was on him.

"Dean!" he screamed. A vacuum opened up squeezing him into an impossibly small shape. The world grew dark, lost color.

He heard Dean's agonized scream of "Adam! No!" before the world simply vanished into an instant of blackness.

* * *

**NINE YEARS AGO**

Sam was sixteen, and Adam was eleven. He had Dean as an example and John as a role model. Sam stayed in the corner with his books, trying not to think about the letter from Stanford in his backpack.

Dean was playing a childish game of cards with John and Adam, though they had added stakes to the game and were now ribbing each other over the winnings. Sam stared at the textbook he didn't have to read until next week. He had told John that he had a test the next day, and that he needed to pass it if he wanted to graduate on time.

John didn't want Sam in school longer than necessary, though he agreed to let him get his high school diploma. That was generous of him, as he just shook his head exasperatedly when Dean had dropped out early.

But he would never let Sam leave for Stanford, but he didn't want to leave Dean and Adam. He didn't want to watch them become John, didn't want to see them stubbornly ignore all the things they wanted and could never have. Sam didn't want to be a hunter, and he certainly didn't want to keep watching Adam getting torn to shreds by every black monster John could find in the phonebook, all on this pointless, endless quest to find the yellow-eyed demon.

He was trapped. Absolutely trapped by his family. Why had he even applied to colleges? Why had they taken in such a fucked up kid? It had to be a mistake, but it was theirs this time, and he had one pin-point of light in this darkness.

He was going to suffocate under the weight of his own thoughts.

"Sometimes it's just impossible to read you," Dean said.

Sam looked up to find John unpacking the guns onto the table, and Adam putting the cards away. Dean had taken the opportunity to sit on the edge of the bed and take his shoes off. It was going to be a quiet night then. Sam snapped his book shut and stretched.

"What are you talking about?" he asked innocently, wrinkling his nose at the stench of Dean's unwashed socks.

"You've been staring at that book for the past hour, and nobody thinks that hard about," he craned his head to read the textbook's name, "American History."

Sam shrugged, "I guess I just zoned out."

Dean smirked knowingly. "Has our little Sammy found a girl?"

Sam rolled his eyes, "Shove off, Dean."

He got up, holding his hands out in surrender, "Whatever Sam, come on. Race you on a field strip."

The odds were against that. Sam was the fastest out of all of them, and the best shot. John did the research (though Sam had yet to make him see the powers of a laptop and a good spreadsheet), Dean got the info and could wrestle werewolves with ease, and Adam was turning out to be a damn master with a knife. He was growing up just like Dean, all swagger and cocky smiles, needing nothing but his family and his gun. (He's too young dad!)

They huddled around the little table. Sam, when trying to go fast, could clean a gun in forty-seven seconds flat. But he was going slow today, taking his time to make sure it was all done perfectly because a clean gun is a safe gun. Dean and Dad started talking about the latest girl Dean was "dating," some redhead college girl who apparently had a thing for thongs, and then changed the subject to Adam and his studies, because they realized they probably shouldn't be talking about thongs and hot redheads around a kid Adam's age.

Sam looked up, watching his family talk and enjoy their time while he stayed on the outskirts of the conversation, silent and barely there.

And he wondered.

What would happen if he just...

Shot himself in the head?

What would they do? Would they even do _anything_? They'd pick up and leave, find some other town, some other monster, because there were always monsters... always.

He looked at the gun in his hands, a powerful, sleek mechanical thing.

He would do it.

He was going to do it.

Right now, he should just shoot himself and be done with hunting and killing and all the abnormal in his life. He wouldn't be a failure to his family anymore.

He would just be dead. Gone.

He was going to do it. He was going to pull the trigger and shoot himself in the head and be dead and gone and finally see his mother. Dad and Dean and Adam would be free. It would all be so much better, so much easier for everyone. This was his escape, the way out, a big glowing exit sign that spelled out all the answers-

"I'm just going to the bathroom." He felt the words leave his mouth, but couldn't remember forming the thought. The Winchesters ignored him, Dean and Adam lost in a race to clean their favorite guns, John playing the referee.

In a dream-like state he was on his feet, the gun held loosely, balanced in his hand. The bathroom door opened and shut behind him, because he was on autopilot and it didn't quite feel real, that he was making these decisions. There was the cold white tile, the stained bathtub and the cracked toilet. The easily packet toiletries and a few towels strung haphazardly on the rack because the maid hadn't come yet.

There was a roar of laughter from the table had had left, outside in that dirty motel room that joined the stream of motel rooms that had become his home. Never permanent. Always changing, always the same.

He lay down in the tub, rested his feet against the faucet and tipped his head back. He felt the cool metal of the gun dig into his chin.

His finger tightened on the trigger ever so slightly, and he took his last breath-

* * *

**NOW**

A thunderclap of sound, color, and movement shook the bathroom and the gun went off. But the angle was wrong now, his hand had moved at the last second and the bullet grazed his jawline and shattered the tiles behind his left ear.

He cried out, because _damn_ that had hurt, and he struggled in the tub pathetically for a minute, trying to see what the hell was going on, but his hands kept slipping in the light spray of blood he had managed to draw from his own neck.

"What the hell?" someone asked.

Sam stared at the two strangers slack jawed because they didn't look like monsters. Hell, they looked as surprised as he was. They were standing in front of the bathroom counter, and Sam could tell at a glance they were hunters, they had the look— Practical, tactical clothing washed a hundred times too many, hard eyes, calloused hands from shooting, digging, stabbing.

The youngest looked around his age, perhaps a little older, and the older one looked to be in his late twenties, early thirties. For a moment Sam and the two men stared at each other, shock and fear competing in each of their faces.

There was a crash from the adjoining room where his family had heard the- whatever this was. John's voice rose high and reedy into a noise Sam hadn't thought his father could make: "_SAM!" _

The door shook on its hinges, shivering against its frame as it no doubt met with John's shoulder.

Sam had the gun turned on the two strangers in a split second. He had the advantage from this low angle. They couldn't reach for a weapon without him shooting first. They were related, he could see that at once. Green eyes, the same shock of brown hair. They looked… familiar. In fact, he had the same eyes and hair. It couldn't be… John didn't have any family.

"Who are you?" Sam asked, his finger firm on the trigger, as if he were out on the hunt, not blitz attacked during his suicide.

They were staring at him, mouths open comically, hands half raised at the muzzle of his gun.

"Whoah kid, you're bleeding," the older one said, then he frowned and squinted at Sam's face.

"I noticed," Sam said evenly, not bothering to hold a hand to the wound on his jaw, though he could feel the blood slipping down his shirt front and collecting on his chest. "Dad?" Sam called out as his father hit the door again.

"Sam, What's going on?" John asked through the door, the doorknob shook as the older hunter tried the lock. "Sam, open the door!"

"Sam?" That was the younger one. He was _crying_.

"Do I know you?" Sam asked, his eyes flickering between the two hunters no longer out of fear, but confusion. They hadn't moved for their weapons, but they didn't seem that afraid of his gun, when they _really _should be.

"This is a trick," the older one said, looking around the bathroom.

"Sam!" That was Adam, calling through the door, sounding frantic. The two strangers flinched, now looking towards the door.

"No. I remember this," the younger one said, "Dean, I _remember_."

"It's not real," was the other's answer. "This… This is the angels. Or.." he trailed off.

"There are no such things as angels," Sam said, keeping his voice steady, though it took some effort. "How do you know Dean?"

The older one opened his mouth, but his reply was cut off as the door caved under John's heel. Now there were six people in the bathroom, far too many for its size. John, Adam, and Dean had fanned out in the doorway and the newcomers were crowded by the mirror, still looking more confused than afraid.

"Sam?" John asked, seeing the blood soaking into his shirt.

"I'm fine, sir," he reported. "Dean, do you know these people?"

"Never seen them before," Dean said, keeping his gun trained on the strangers.

"They know our names."

"Sam?" It was the younger one again, "Dean, it's Sam. It's him."

"What?" Dean asked, looking a little unbalanced.

"It's not!" The older one said firmly, looking away from Sam and focusing on John.

Sam opened his mouth, lowering the gun. It was… it couldn't be. How..?

"You have thirty seconds to tell me what you are and what you're doing here, or you're going to be buried on a _very _lonely stretch of highway," John said slowly.

Sam finally found his voice. He dropped the gun entirely, his hands shaking with adrenaline, his mind swirling with confusion. "Dad, It's… It's Adam. And Dean."

"What?" A few voices joined at once, mingling and echoing in the overcrowded bathroom.

But it was true. It was impossible _not_ to see it now, like one of those optical illusions where there was a picture within a picture. He couldn't unsee it.

His brothers had grown up… well they had grown up like John, down to the haircut. And there were the scars on their hands, faded now and a few new ones crisscrossing their flesh, but the same ones that Sam had cleaned and stitched.

John hadn't lowered his weapon, but was eyeing them both suspiciously. It was Dean who brought out the silver knife and the holy water. The reflexes took over, this was a routine that every hunter knew. Everyone but Sam pulled up their sleeve and set about drawing blood to everyone's satisfaction.

Introductions over, they all holstered their guns, then stood awkwardly, looking at each other like two alien species meeting for the first time. Adam and Dean were peering cautiously around John's protective stance.

"Sam?" it was his Dean, "Sam, what are you doing in the tub?"

Sam looked at his gun, then lifted a hand two his chin where his skin was starting to feel like it was on fire.

"Those are powder burns," Adam observed from next to John.

Their father was staring at Sam, or rather at the shattered tile behind Sam's head, the gun now sitting on his chest, and the blood slipping down his neck.

"Sa-" his voice hitched, he half-raised a trembling hand.

"It's not what it looks like," Sam said, picking up the gun, and struggling to his feet. The blow came out of nowhere and he lost his precarious balance. Future-Adam had shoved him hard in the chest and disarmed him as easily as John or Dean could.

"Hey!" John's gun was instantly up, focused on Adam in warning, on the edge of aggression.

Adam held the gun out, gently placed it on the floor and kicked it towards his father. "I think we'd all be a little more comfortable if Sam didn't have the gun." he said reassuringly. He kept a hand on Sam's wrist, alert to any movement the boy would make.

"Adam," Future-Dean warned, "Adam let go. It's not real. This is a trick."

"Is that so?" John asked slowly, still pointing the gun at his eldest son.

* * *

_**Again, this was inspired by NoobieNinja's 'Needed' found here: **_ / works/ 930891_****_

**_Noobie's story is like... 10,000,000x better than this story, so go check that out. And if you like this kind of thing I can recommend googling bettenoir's suicidal Sam compendium because.. Gah! So much Angst!_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Well, thank you for the reviews. I'm just going to update with this kinda backstory thing I wrote today. Again, Noobieninja's 'Needed' is responsible for most of this angstfest, so look that up when you get the chance. Please forgive typos, I have no beta, and I just write as fast as I can, so... yeah.**_

_**Please review with your thoughts. **_

* * *

NINE YEARS AGO

Dean placed the gun on the table with a smirk. He may not have Sammy's speed, but damn, if his little brother didn't watch himself, Dean would beat him someday soon. Adam pouted as he slid the grip into place and checked the chamber.

He may have been eleven, but he was going to be a great hunter. Dean could see all the signs. He smiled proudly, but covered it with a smirk when his little brother looked up. He laughed at the narrowed eyes and childish grumpiness displayed on his youngest brother's face. At first it seemed like Adam was going to take offense, but he broke into a wide smile and laughed good naturedly alongside Dean.

It was a good day, a good night. They were a family and they might not have a perfect life, but Dean wouldn't want to be anywhere else. He shook his head and picked up his gun, looking to Sam's empty chair. When had he left the table?

Why had he taken—

The gunshot came mid-chuckle.

Dean sprang up, gun at the ready, shoving the clip into his handgun and looking towards the bathroom door where the noise had come from. John was faster, he was at the door in seconds.

"Sam!"

The door was locked. It rattled against the frame as John shook the doorknob. Why would Sam lock the door? "SAM!"

No answer. The door unhinged under their father's foot and he stepped into the bathroom, gun at the ready, scanning the room for whatever Sam had been shooting at—

White porcelain tub, white tiled floor, white, blank walls. White motel soap and white, clean towels hung on the rack.

Red. Sam.

Dean buckled first. His knees hit the ground solidly, but he didn't really feel it. Sam's head was turned to the side, blood trickling from his nose, and the corner of his mouth, his hair hanging over the right side of his face, his eyes half-closed.

"Sam?" That was Adam. He shouldn't see this. Dean needed to take him away, shield him like he had shielded Sam all those years ago from the flames and the terror, but he couldn't move.

"Sam!" Adam was screaming now, his mouth moving with one name repeated over and over again, and John was trying to move him, trying to get him out the door, but Dean couldn't budge. He was frozen, turned to stone, as fragile as ice.

"Samsamsamsamsamsamsam."

And John was gone, sweeping up Adam and dodging back through the door, closing it so his youngest wouldn't see. It was already too late for Dean. He crawled to Sam, his hands shook as he tried to slap some color into those pale cheeks, he had to avoid touching the blood, because… well because it was Sam, it was his precious baby brother. He couldn't be bleeding.

There was no pulse.

No heartbeat, no light push of air from Sam's lips.

There was blood sprayed against back wall, a red shadow.

Dean sat there for a long time, his thoughts frozen. His hands fluttered against Sam's white T-shirt, now soaked through with an arterial splatter. The sixteen-year olds chest was bony, pale, unmarked.

"Sam?" he whispered. Maybe if he was quiet enough, if he didn't try to break this moment, Sam would open his eyes, maybe wink at Dean, and this would be some elaborate trick, or prank, or some monster's effect. It could still be fixed, it could still be… changed.

"Sam?" he tried again, because Sam hadn't moved, past a sluggish trickle of blood from his lips sliding down his chin and hairline. "Sam, don't—"

_Don't do this. Please don't be… don't. Please don't be dead. I can't. Don't._

John was back, at his side. "It's too late Dean, come on. We have to pack up the guns, we have to call the police. Dean, get up, Adam needs us."

"It's Sam. Dad, we have to…"

"There's nothing we can do, Dean. We have to take care of this."

* * *

Dean curled himself around Adam, who hadn't talked since the police had come and taken their statement, replaced them with condolences, and offered the services of a local grief counselor.

The remaining Winchester children didn't wait for John to come back from thanking the officers, but crawled into bed together. Dean held Adam, who cried fitfully, and lay rigidly, then cried again, in an endless cycle of misery.

John came back, packed everything, got his children into the Impala, and they drove aimlessly around the tiny town. Dean sat in the back seat, Adam's head on his lap, and nobody talked. The night was cold, and a light pattering of rain filled the car with a melancholy percussion.

Dean cried silently, the way he had taught himself.

* * *

The funeral was a dull affair, held back a few days by the police inquiry and a visit from the local social services. One look at the broken family told her Sam hadn't… done what he had done, because of his family.

Dean wasn't so sure, but who was he to argue with the stern looking woman.

They dug him up at midnight while the soil was still fresh, and they salted and burned his ashes in the middle of the woods, their grief protected from view.

And then they could finally leave this little godforsaken town.

* * *

"Why do you think he did it?" Adam asked a full year later.

Dean thought about feigning ignorance about what his little brother was asking about, but his throat had closed. He just shook his head.

Adam never asked again.

* * *

A year after that, they came back to the motel and John was waiting, drunk. Sam's duffel had been lying in the back of the Impala, untouched. They didn't have many possessions on the road, and not much room in the Impala for unneeded objects, but no one touched the faded black bag, and after a while Dean's eyes would just slip over the familiar lumpy shape.

So he was almost shocked by the appearance of it on the neatly made motel bedspread. It had been opened and objects spilled from it as if it had been disemboweled. Dean felt his throat close again. Those were Sam's clothes, his books, and the knife Dean had gotten him for that last Christmas.

Their father slumped on the floor, his back against the mattress. There was a piece of paper clutched in a shaking hand, and a bottle of expensive whiskey cradled against his stomach.

"Dad?" Dean asked cautiously.

John looked up, and the stoic, stone-faced man was crumpled in defeat and misery.

"What's wrong?" Adam whispered, looking towards the messy arrangement of Sam's clothes and treasures.

John just shook his head. "I'll sleep in the Impala tonight, boys. We're moving on tomorrow, so get your school things ready."

And then he was getting to his feet, and the sheet of paper was slipped onto the cabinet as he stumbled out into the parking lot.

Adam looked up at Dean, who shrugged helplessly. Why John would want to sleep in the Impala when they had paid the motel up for the next week was a mystery to them both.

Thinking that the letter could only mean bad news, Dean glanced at it and froze on the name.

_ Dear Sam,_

_I take great pleasure in offering you admission to Stanford University…_

And there was a decal on the top of the letter, an impressive red seal. The realization hit Dean in the stomach. Sam. Sam had a future. Sam had wanted… had wanted to leave. Could have left.

"Dean?" Adam asked, he was pouring over the contents of Sam's life with a curiously blank expression, "What does it say?"

Dean cleared his throat, and shoved the paper into the pocket of his jacket. "Nothing," he told Adam, "It's just… You don't want to know."

Adam shrugged, and Dean began to worry. The youngest Winchester had lost his spark in the past few years, lost some of his caring nature.

"Do you remember Sam?" he asked.

An angry spark lit the youngster's face, "Yeah Dean. It's only been two years. You and Dad are the ones who won't talk about him. You're the ones who pretend he never existed."

"No," Dean swallowed uneasily, "I mean, can you remember if he was ever happy? With us?"

They both stared down at the faded jeans and windbreaker, Dean could almost smell the dusty peppermint that was all Sam and a little bit of the mother he could sometimes remember.

"I used to think so," Adam said quietly, "but now when I think of those times, I just… I have to wonder if he was just pretending."

"He loved you," Dean told him, feeling the letter burn in his pocket. Sam had wanted to leave. Sam had been desperate to leave, but Dean knew that Sam loved Adam.

"I know," Adam picked up a T-shirt and smoothed it out against his legs.

* * *

Adam turned sixteen with a subdued fanfare. He blew the candles out on the cake Dean had bought half-price from the grocery store a few blocks from the motel. _Sam's age_.

John smiled tightly when he handed his youngest son a new set of clothes, and a serviceable knife. "We'll have to teach you how to drive soon."

Nodding, Adam smiled up at Dean, a smile that was all Sammy and a little bit Mary. He was a cute kid.

Dean got drunk and spent the night huddled over a toilet. Adam brought him towels and spent most of the time in the corner of the bathroom asking anxiously if Dean was alright.

* * *

Adam's seventeenth birthday was even worse.

* * *

They left Sam behind. He faded a little into memory, but there was always that empty spot in the car where Dean would sometimes turn and remember the features on the edge of becoming handsome, the toothy smile and eager eyes, the caring soulful puppy-dog look. Every year on the same day, Dean would get drunk and try not to remember kneeling on the cold hard tiles, trying to bring his brother back.

Life carried on and they hunted, learned how to kill in ever more creative ways. Adam turned into an efficient hunter, and little family was making quite the legend in all the wrong kinds of circles. Dean slept with a lot of women, Adam tried a few relationships, and John just kept on hunting the yellow eyed demon.

Their father died in the hospital, saving Dean.

And then there were two.

They killed the yellow-eyed demon.

Adam died in his arms.

Stabbed in the back during a routine hunt, Adam crumpled to the ground and Dean howled. This was his fault. He had to have his brother's back. He couldn't outlive Sam and Adam, it just wasn't _fair_. He was just a kid, and Dean felt himself fall apart. He frayed on the edges and reality seemed to drop away from his feet. The world opened up and swallowed him whole.

He was alone. Completely without the one thing that made him somebody, the one defining object of his life. Dean for a brief moment that lasted an eternity was without family.

He sold his soul, and the next year he broke the first seal on the apocalypse.

Adam was strong when he came back from the forty years of hell. His little brother was hunting like a machine. (Castiel said it was because he was a chosen warrior, all the Winchesters were.)

The last seal broke with Adam killing Lilith, and then the revelation that Lucifer was wearing his second-best meat-suit to the prom if Adam said yes.

And then that day came around, the day Dean had eight times. Except this time, something attacked.

* * *

NOW

This wasn't Sam. This was a monster, a _thing_ trying to trick him. A djinn maybe? Something had to be creating this world for him. The details were wrong, His father looked too young, and Sam looked too old. The blood wasn't right, and Sam was _alive_.

He was going to rip whatever had done this to shreds. He was going to wrench it apart with his bare hands and eat the remains. Blind anger took a hold of him, but he didn't know what to attack, what to trust.

Adam was crying, was reaching out to his dead brother with such hope. A growl started to grow deep in Dean's chest. "Adam," he warned, "Adam let go. It's not real. This is a trick."

"Is that so?" fake John asked, holding up his gun.

And there, under his raised arm, peered a young Dean, his gun holstered, but still wary.

In an instant Dean saw himself clearly, the innocence, the unbroken faith, the absolute trust. This Dean still had his family, had not seen all the horrors life had to offer. This Dean hadn't been flayed apart in hell, hadn't lost both brothers, or watched the world fall apart in a bloody, messy battle that revealed all the intricate tortures war had in store for him.

He swallowed, not quite able to breathe. It couldn't be real, could it?

"Dean," Adam said quietly, "We'll figure this out. Let's just… sit down. We've all proved we're human now. We can go sit down somewhere and figure this all out."

* * *

_**Please review with your thoughts.**_


	3. Chapter 3

Look guys, if you want me to keep writing, you're going to have to start reviewing. I'm super serial. Phantom followers are going to drive me crazy. Why are you following this? **TELL ME SO I CAN MAKE YOU HAPPY**!

The Impala was the only home the boys ever knew. The seats were molded to them, every inch of it was worked into their memory, as familiar as each other, and far more comforting. The Impala was home. Warm in the winter and cold in the summer. The Impala taught them about engines, about how to keep going even when the world was falling apart.

There was something special about that car.

John always drove, unless he was teaching the boys how to handle her. Dean sat in the front unless Sam was navigating, and Adam, well Adam sat in the back, keeping their spirits up, reminding them why they were fighting.

Sam taught him how to read in the back of that car, and Adam was soon devouring books. He'd read out loud sometimes, and there would be comfortable, companionable quiet as they took in his words. Adam's memories of Sam would always be of his brother's face turned to the window, a pensive stare into the darkness all around them, and a haunted, shadowy look that he couldn't identify until it was far, far too late.

He was too young, when it happened, to understand what was going on. He was angry at Sam for leaving at first. He was hurt, and confused. Dean just didn't talk to him, and John wouldn't explain exactly what Adam had caught a glimpse of in that motel.

So his imagination would make up the rest, until he realized, kind of out of the blue what had happened, what nobody was saying.

Sam had shot _himself_.

The images that came with that were garbled and confused. Adam had an impression of blood, and white, gleaming floors. He knew he had seen… whatever it was, but every time he tried to remember the details, it all kind of blurred together and his mind glossed over it like he was trying to force two magnets to touch.

It was in Literature, while they were watching "Watership Down," that the pieces clicked together. The family tragedy finally revealed. Like the rabbits, home had been lost in a tide of blood with the stench of death. He could barely face Dean when he came to pick him up after school.

The door creaked, a familiar, comforting complaint, and he closed it firmly, settling his backpack by his feet.

"How was your day?" Dean asked.

"Fine." Adam said.

* * *

His Dean was the first to move. He shoved past John, ignoring his father's warning, and pulled Sam out of the tub, away from old Adam and old Dean. "What is this?" he asked, feeling up the side of Sam's neck, searching for the source of all the blood. His anger, his fear was palpable.

"It was just an—an accident Dean. I didn't—"

_I didn't mean to slip. I should be gone. I fucked it up again. Put everyone in danger. Again._

"Slipped into the tub, and blew your brains out, huh Sammy?" old Dean asked, his voice hoarse. "Well that's comforting."

"Sam?" It was John, his face was pale. He looked so much older already, as if he too was from this impossible future. "Sam, were you…?"

Sam tried to fumble out a lie, but the words got stuck. His mind was blank. It had seemed so simple when he had left the room, like a math equation. He would die, and then it would all just… stop. He wouldn't have to lie any more. The relief had been physical, a lifting of weight, but it was all crashing down around his ears.

_I should be dead. Why? Why am I not dead?_

The answer was standing a few feet away in the form of two much older brothers. They had hunched together, observing the scene cautiously. Young Dean shook the back of his head until Sam made eye contact. "What—" he started, but stopped abruptly.

"Sam?" he asked urgently.

_What? _Sam wanted to ask, _What is it? What do you want? Was this not enough?_ But the words weren't coming. He couldn't really breathe. His lungs were paralyzed, his ribs crushing against his hammering heart._ Please,_ he prayed, _let this be a dream. I can't… I can't. I can't. I can't. I just can't do it anymore._

Darkness rushed against him like a wave against the shore.

* * *

Sam was thirteen. Death was so much a part of this life, that thinking about it constantly seemed almost normal. But it wasn't. Everyone knew that.

He instinctively hid his obsession, as it was growing to be, a little ashamed about his mind going to such dark places in the moments between hunts and school and family. It was hard not to feel guilty when he was curled up next to Adam, thinking about leaving him.

It would have been so easy. They had almost every method within arm's reach. _Let me count the ways… _The major pain drugs that had numbed Sam when Dean had stitched him up after his first clawing. They could rock him to sleep under some nearby bridge. The knives that could slice and dice anything, they could open up the veins in his arms, or in his neck. Poison. There were dozens in the back of the Impala, ranging from slow and painful to quick and painless.

Of course the guns, a sudden, violent exit, gone in a flash.

Temple? Chin? Heart? Swallow the barrel?

Rope? You could never have enough rope when you were a hunter. A noose around the neck? He could hang himself from a tree, none of the fixtures in the motel could be trusted to hold, and the ceiling was too low anyway.

He could jump from a roof, as long as they weren't in the extreme southern states where the buildings were too low and the land too flat.

Adam breathed against his back, his baby breaths deep and fast, on the edge of a snore. Sam let the thoughts ebb away in the wash of that noise. He wasn't serious about it. It was just a fantasy, just something to pass the time.

But that ticklish feeling, that pleasurable thrill of freedom stayed in his chest. Death was freedom, and it was just close enough to touch.

* * *

"Sam killed himself?" Dean asked shakily.

"In that bathroom, with that gun, half an hour ago," his future told him grimly.

They had grouped around the bed, and were looking at the unconscious Sam, as though at any moment he might wake up and explain what was going on.

"We'll take care of it," John said, sitting next to Sam and feeling his forehead. "We'll get him help. We can… I can fix this."

"But why don't we remember this? I still remember…" Adam swallowed and looked at himself, all eleven years old. "I remember him being gone."

"Okay," Dean sat down on the bed, "Okay. We just need to think."

Young Dean gathered Adam into his arms, and kept one eye on Sam, the other on their strange visitors. Adam had turned out alright, handsome, cool, confident, and almost serene. But that Dean looked haggard, he looked old and worn out, like Dad did when Dean knew to stay away.

He wasn't sure he would like to know what his future held.

**Review, or so help me god, I will ground you for a _month_.**


	4. Chapter 4

THANK YOU FOR YOUR REVIEWS! I will respond to each one individually when I get time. I was caught up writing this chapter, which was much harder to write than usual. Sorry for the delay. I have also added tags to the top of each part, to try and make some sort of chronological sense. I will go back and do the same to the earlier chapters later tonight.

* * *

NOW

Sam woke up immediately, a familiar disappointment. He kept his breathing normal, sensing a nearby presence. The skin over his collarbone and neck burned, someone had cleaned his injuries. There was no sound around him, but the mattress was dipping underneath his hips. Had to be John by the weight.

"He's awake," Adam reported from nearby.

Sam winced involuntarily. Trust Adam to call his bluff. He reluctantly opened his eyes, and was greeted by his father's shadowed face. He looked angry, was he going to shout?

"Hey Sam," John said gruffly.

At least he wasn't shouting, but this was confrontation, and Sam didn't have an argument for this. He had failed, and now he looked pathetic, a failure.

"Where are the other Adam and Dean?" he asked, turning away to wipe the forming tears out of his eyes.

Behind him he heard John sigh, "Making calls."

"Don't try to pretend," that was Dean. That was more like the Winchester growl, the violent edge behind the words. Sam sent him a glare and was surprised to see Dean with an arm around Adam, the two of them slouched against the backboard of the second bed. Adam looked confused, Dean angry.

"What?" he asked, peeling off the ruined white shirt and reaching for another in his bag. His raw skin pinched against the fabric, a punishment. This wasn't a big deal. He hadn't managed to do it after all. Just another failure in a long line of failures.

As he pulled the cotton over his shoulders, something brushed against him. The motel door opened, the cotton cleared Sam's eyes and like a vanishing act, Dean was no longer huddled next to Adam. The door slammed shut behind him, throwing a gust of cool air into the room.

"Dean?" Adam asked, looking out of place all alone on the crisply made bed.

"It's okay, buddy," John reassured him, "Why don't you go after him? Me and Sam are just gonna be in here talking."

"I want to go with Adam," Sam said impulsively.

"Sam," John said warningly, but Adam had him beat.

"I'll bring you back something," and the eleven year old was running out the door, no doubt glad to be away from the tension. Or away from Sam. He tried to bite back the thought, but it rang so true in his head.

The door opened and closed again, marking Adam's exit.

Now it was just him and John. Sam tried to make an escape to the bathroom, cutting a wide berth around his father, but the eldest Winchester shook his head, "Come on Sam."

He made a show of sitting on the bed, and nodded to the other one. "We need to talk."

Sam backed away, shaking his head in opposition, "It's fine Dad. It was just an accident. It was just…"

"I know what it was, Sam," John said, cutting through the jumbled thoughts racing through Sam's head. Why couldn't he _think_? There was a way out of this, there was always a way out—

"Where's my gun?" The guns were gone, all of the guns. The knives, and the packages of herbs, and wooden bowls. Were they going to leave him? They were. Even Sam's duffel had been emptied of weapons, he hadn't noticed when he was pulling out the new shirt, but now he could see the bulges where they should have stretched against the canvas.

"You won't need your gun," John said. He was still sitting on the bed, his hand clasped between his knees.

Sam suddenly wanted to hit the man. He wanted to cause him pain. Sam had been trying to fix it, was so close to fixing it, and now they were just going to leave him? Fear writhed in his chest, squeezing precious room in his ribcage from his heart and lungs. What were they going to do? Lock him a room with soft walls?

"Dad," he began shakily, "Dad, I didn't mean it."

John shook his head. "That Adam and Dean are from a future where you succeeded. I know you meant what you were doing. You used a gun, you were in the tub, and you pulled the trigger— Christ," Sam jumped a little as his father swiped a hand over his face, "Sam, you nearly…"

He choked up, and Sam was grateful because every word was shaking his foundations. His lips are trembling and he was _seconds_ from breaking, shattering into a thousand places. He wanted to scream, howl, fight and fight until he shredded himself out of his body.

But he was frozen, and when John looked at him again it was an imploring, pleading look that Sam had no idea how to respond to. His father is a commander. Even when he is in the room, he isn't really _there._

"Sam, talk to me. Tell me what's going on. Is it a girl? Or School? Or is it… is it us?"

And that's when Sam bolts.

* * *

THREE YEARS AGO

Adam gets his diploma, and Dean half wishes he would get out of the life. He wished his little brother could just leave. He's smart enough, capable of anything put in front of him, but there's that Winchester stubbornness. Dean sometimes wants to ask him whether he still remembers Sam, how intelligent and driven he was.

Because now it scares him. He is terrified of how similar his brothers are.

"You good?" he asks Adam when the skinny boy only orders a cup of coffee. They've spent twelve hours in the car. They've got lead on yellow-eyes. A _good _lead, and that's too precious to waste. Both of them are still fired up from John's death, and Dean can't measure how relieved he is that Adam wasn't there to see it. He had been finishing his senior year in Orlando, waiting for their call.

Adam blinks sleepily at him. "Hmm?" he asks.

"We've still got a long way to go, you sure you don't want some pancakes?"

He nods. "I'll eat when we get there."

Dean calls the waitress over. She's in her forties with dyed blonde hair and a sallow face. She smiles at them with big, unfortunate teeth. "Something else caught you eye?" she asks with practiced enthusiasm.

"Can I get a side of blueberry pancakes?" he asks.

"Sure thing," and she's gone.

Adam glares at him. "I'm not hungry Dean." he says.

Dean shrugs. They're both tired, and had more than enough of each other, cramped in the Impala, breathing each other's air. This is the cue for a fight, but he feels too tired, too worried, to win this one.

Adam opens his mouth, about to argue, but when Dean doesn't meet his eyes, he deflates. "Fine."

That wasn't Sammy. Dean's chest opens a little. Sam would have pushed and tested, until they both snapped. They would have had an argument, and he would have stormed out rather than admit defeat.

Then they both would have said too much, and they'd feel guilty, but no longer angry. And they'd know exactly how the other was feeling when they got into the Impala and set out again. The air would thin a little, and they'd apologize in a thousand tiny ways with Adam rolling his eyes in the backseat '_you guys are such girls.'_

At least, that was Sammy six years ago.

But Adam was as closed off. And Dean was still tired. He shouldn't be making this comparison. Adam wasn't Sammy, and Dean had to be grateful.

* * *

NOW

Adam watched Dean cautiously. They had gotten an old number from John, and Dean was frustrated. Sam would be awake by now, and Adam wanted to go to him. It had been a shock to realize just how much he remembered his older brother. Wiry, lean, long limbed. Tired. It was all the same, true to the memory that he thought should be distorted by time and pain.

He twisted his fingers, feeling the knuckles crack under the stress. His younger self was a stranger now. There were a thousand warnings and reassurances he felt like he owed the little Winchester, but he had held back in the motel room.

Maybe this time, he would have a chance at making everything right. With Sam here maybe Dean wouldn't make the Deal, maybe John wouldn't die or go missing with three sons too look after. He was thrown out of his thoughts by Dean snapping the phone shut.

"Bobby's looking through the books," Dean told him curtly, throwing the phone to Adam to take back to John.

"What about Ellen? She might know something."

"I'm not calling Ellen."

He began to walk back to the motel room, apparently already done with this conversation.

"Why not? We should pool resources." Adam followed his brother, already clicking his way through John's contacts, trying to find Ellen's name. He is so absorbed in the search, he nearly walks into Dean's back.

"Ellen's dead," Dean said with a finality that scares Adam. "Ellen, Jo, Ash. They're all dead."

"Not now," Adam scoffs. "Maybe this is a second chance, we can warn them. Hell, we can stop the apocalypse! We saved Sam, who knows what else we can change!"

"We're here because of a monster, Adam. We'll kill it and everything will go back to the way it was. That's how it works. If any of this is real, any of it at all, we'd be changed. We'd remember it _differently_."

Adam took a step back and held his hands out, trying to calm his brother a little. It doesn't work.

"We didn't save Sam. We can't save Sam, because that's just how the world works," Dean continues, cocking his head to the side, like he's facing down a threat, "All we have is each other, and the apocalypse is still happening _somewhere_. Anything we see or do here will change _nothing_."

"You can't really believe that."

"Angels are dicks, and there are more demons than people. If we have learned anything, it's that believing in anything will get you killed. What I _know_ is that there is no magical fix for the Winchesters."

"You don't know that, Dean," Adam whispered, and this time he's the one to move forward until he's in Dean's space and his brother had to lean away. "You can just stand out here and be angry at everyone else for not giving you a break. But that is our _family_ in there. Sam is in there and he needs our help, Dad too. I know you're angry at Sam, and you're hurting, even if you won't admit it. You think you don't care? Fuck you. You don't just _decide_ to stop caring. So you just sulk out here for a while, I'm going to go find my brothers and tell them it's going to be okay. Hell, I'll go give John a hug because he's my father, and I miss him. And then I am going to call Ellen, and ask her to help us. You can come find me when you've decided that the world is worth saving again."

He walked past Dean. He didn't want to hear anything his brother had to say, not at that moment. Dean was his brother, the only person that Adam would trust with his life, even his soul. That didn't mean he was right.

They were both tired, and confused, but that didn't mean they had to give up before they even tried.

* * *

ELEVEN YEARS AGO

Sam stared at himself in the mirror. The hunt had been bad, his side is all cut to hell, and if he were a normal kid, he'd be getting stitches at a hospital. Dad had brought the thing home, had thought he'd killed the whole nest, but of course there was just one survivor, all fired up for revenge.

Dean had gotten it worse. He was getting stitched up on the motel bed, but Sam had to shower, get everything out of the cuts before John could take a look at them. He lingered at the mirror, watching the watery blood stream down his skin in rivers, connecting with droplets of water collected on his skin from his shower.

It became thinner and gathered speed. It tickled as it ran down his thighs, slipped over his calves and gathered around his feet, a pale, pink water. The torn skin was almost fascinating, all the jagged edges and diagonal lines.

Violent. Uneven. Uncalculated. Sam hated that.

He had an English Test tomorrow. The pain would be a distraction. He'd spend the whole day paranoid that blood would be leaking through his shirt. That would be his two worlds colliding. School and the hunting, his family tangled. Maybe he could bind it up with cling-film. It would take longer to heal, but nobody would find out. Things could stay separate.

A knock on the door startled him. "You done?" It was Adam. He hadn't been hit, but John was going to show him how to stitch up a wound, and Sam had helpfully provided some practical practice.

Sam was useful in that way at least.

* * *

RIGHT NOW

Please more, I am a greedy writer. Reviews are just… they keep me going when the siren call of procrastination comes for me.


	5. Chapter 5

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

"What is it?" Adam asked. His childish face was lit up with awe. Probably just at the fact that whatever-it-was was new, not a hand-me-down or bought in the clearance section of the drug store.

"Looks expensive," Dean observed, and there was an odd tone to his voice. He sounded distant.

"I saved up," Sam said defensively, hunching one shoulder.

He had missed every lunch of the school year to save up, and it hadn't been the most expensive in the little store at the mall. It was perfect for Adam. Smooth, Jet black, just heavy enough to be manageable. "The tip will wear down by the way you hold your hand. Like a knife. It'll be yours. No one else will have a pen like it.'

He was so intent on the words Adam wrote in childish, blocky letters, he flinched when his brother flung himself at him for a hug. "I love it," Adam said, "Thank you so much. I'm never going to lose it, I promise."

The Winchesters have so few possessions, and they are so territorial, he never does loose it. He keeps it in his jacket at all times, and when he studies his Latin or translates a spell, it reminds him of Sam. It's one of the only things he owns not given out of necessity. It doesn't protect him, but it has purpose, use and intention. It has nothing to do with hunting.

Dean looked at Sam over Adam's head. There was a funny little smile on his face. It wasn't not forced, but Sam doesn't think he's happy.

"You did good Sam," he said.

None of them tell John about the pen, and he never notices. For some reason it's a secret, a binding moment between the three of them. Dean thinks it stupid,( or weird, he will amend). It's just a pen. Just a fancy pen.

* * *

NOW

Sam was shaking. It was cold outside, so cold that he might just freeze to death and save himself the trouble. Dean and Adam, from a future he had left. They looked… well hunters never really looked healthy. The fast food, odd hours, and bone-deep grief left most of them looking like pale, unshaven zombies.

But they were alive. That was enough in this cruel little world.

He was crouched under a small, wooden bridge, part of a local bicycle track. Sometimes a bike would race over his head and the whole foundation would groan and shake in protest. If he had any will to live left he would be moving, trying to get some warmth into his muscles, but what was the point? If he was cold or hot, he was still _here._

Without him, they would live. They'd stay together, stay strong. Adam and Dean against all the monsters and shadows. Sam hunched further into himself. He should find another way…

He was too tired. Getting up was too much effort. His father, John, _sir_ wouldn't have to feel pity for him, wouldn't have to wonder why his son was a failure.

_"Is it us?"_

"No, dad," Sam whispered to his knees, "It's me."

Because he wasn't a hunter. He wasn't good enough to care for Adam. He couldn't protect Dean, or be John's perfect soldier. He was just a rodeo clown for the monsters, a distraction until Dean or their dad could pump them full of lead, or silver, or salt. Even then he failed. He wasn't fast enough to get out of the way, and then of course it would go for Dean (_Blood on dusty floorboards, a high pitched sound ringing endlessly in his ears. Sam! Sam! Get up! We need to get him to the hospital! Shit. It's bad.)_

He couldn't do a single thing right.

* * *

NOW

"You let him go?" Dean asks incredulously. "What did he say?"

Adam is at his side, hanging back a little. The eleven year old is confused. He knows something bad is happening. Something is wrong with Sam, and something about the gun and their older selves is not right. His thoughts are scattered, he doesn't want to think about what is wrong because his mind is just… it's got Sam's voice and it's telling him _"You don't wanna know_."

Their dad is gathering his keys and his coat. "I didn't let him go, he just ran."

"How? What the hell happened?"

"I don't know, Dean!" John is upset, angry. Frustrated, and he knows Dean is right. By the time he had tripped over Sam's discarded duffel and made his way around the bed, opened the door and stumbled out onto the concrete pathway of the motel, Sam was gone. The kid was fast, he had to be in this life. John himself had trained him how to lose a pursuer. "He's got a hell of a head start. Adam, you stay here. Dean, come with me. He's on foot, in the woods. We'll need you to track him. Adam, when… the… other two come back, you tell them we need help."

"With what?" Twenty-year-old Adam appeared in the doorway, looking around the small room, "Where's Sam?"

"Gone," Dean supplied angrily, "he took off."

Years of training took hold in one absolute instant. "Where?" Adam asked, "Which way did he go?"

"The tree line. It's the only way he could have disappeared so fast," John said. He was still unsure about this… boy. But Sam was out there, in danger. A thousand nightmares haunted the earth, but he'd never imagined he'd be this terrified or angry. He'd been forced to raise Sam like a hunter, to make the hard choices. He would kill for his son, and he would die for him.

And someday he might have to kill him. But that wasn't today. Today wasn't the day he was going to say goodbye. The older Adam was gone already and the younger one was looking scared.

"Where's Sam, dad? What's going on?

* * *

NOW

The concrete pathway was well kept. In warmer weather it would probably be frequented by pet owners and families looking for a little outdoor release. Adam followed the winding walkway, searching the ground for any sign of Sam. He would have to cross the path at some point to get any deeper into the woods.

"Sam!" he called out, "It's Adam! I just want to talk to you!"

But when had that ever worked to lure anyone out of hiding?

These woods were huge. What were the chance they could find Sam before he… Adam swallowed, unwilling to finish that thought. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Sam yet, to ask him how he could help. He had read everything he could get his hands on about depression, about the signs, motives, and how the friends and family were supposed to (_should have_) helped.

But they were hunters. Everyone was depressed. Most of the people they knew were suicidal and the job kept them sane, kept them moving. Bobby sometimes would look at Adam and Dean, and you didn't have to be a psychic to read the accusation there. _You're the only thing keeping me here, boys._

Adam had gotten really good at helping people. Hunters. Victims. Civilians. That's why he could hunt so well. He was saving people, good people that deserved life and happiness. Sam deserved that.

Adam couldn't be too late this time. He wouldn't be able to live through it again. He'd bury himself alive and scream at the darkness until his throat collapsed. The thought, the overwhelming dread of finding Sam covered in blood, Sam pale and lifeless, with milky eyes and frozen flesh stopped him in his tracks. He swallowed frantically, trying to banish the fear.

Throat, wrists, head, slashed, bashed, cracked, ripped, sliced, broken. Still.

Forever. Again.

A groan tore out of his throat and he rubbed at his eyes frantically. His vision blurred then crystallized. Ahead of him, the footpath became a small bridge over a small, silent creek that dipped like a miniature, green canyon. The soil was like clay and the stones were worn by nature's patient elements.

He walked to the bride and leaned on the railing, squinting into the forest. Where would Sam go? Maybe it was better not knowing. Of course it wasn't. Adam still didn't have a goodbye. Dean would still be a wreck. And this time they'd be expected to shoulder the pain again, silently, the Winchester way.

Adam lowered his forehead onto his arms, his breath turning to smoke in the air. Why? Why had the creature taken them back here? Maybe it _was_ some cruel trick, fate's way of telling them that Sam was never meant to make it to his next birthday. When had a monster ever given them anything? It was madness to think this could ever have changed anything.

Dean was right. Everyone here was dead already. Adam had been fooling himself.

He'd just wanted this one thing, so badly. One break. One chance to get it done over again, right this time.

Mechanically he stepped back onto the concrete path of the other side, and wedged his feet into the pliant ground, looking for clues around the stream that might tell him if Sam had come this way. He couldn't give up yet.

"Sam?"

It was his brother, huddled under the foundations, his head between his knees. He was shivering, his hands curled into claws on each side of his head. The fear and relief flooded him in shivering waved. His breath dragged in, ragged.

"Hey Sam," Adam said softly, backing away a little before ducking under the bridge to join him.

"I'm right here, Sam."

He couldn't touch his brother, he couldn't be sure how the boy would take the contact. Instead he sat just inches away, his whole body tense with the _need_ to make sure Sam was alright. He sat there, looking out at the creek bed, unsure of how to proceed.

Dean would be trying to get Sam to look at him, close to hitting Sam if he resisted. John would be far away, trying to coax him from under the bridge like it was some milestone in their relationship. Adam twisted his fingers together, feeling sick.

What would Sam do? Sam would… well, he'd just fix it. Sam could do anything.

"I really missed you," he said at last, and he hated the way his voice cracked. He had no experience of dealing with teenagers. Being one himself was awkward enough without having to evaluate the experience.

"Dean missed you too, but he never really says it." Shit. He was rambling, but now he couldn't stop. All those empty motel rooms he monologued to, they were nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to actually talking to Sam. "We still move around a lot, hunting mostly. Dean keeps saying that we'll go to the Grand Canyon, but we just—it's hard to make the time."

Sam said nothing, but his hands had relaxed a little. Adam still couldn't see his face, but it was a relief just to see that his words were being heard. "Dean drinks a lot these days. He doesn't sleep much, and he's stopped chasing girls, but if he hadn't changed I think I might be more worried. Bobby says he needs a break, but you try telling that to Dean. He tells you to shut up, and then he just… he shuts down."

A few ragged breaths warned Adam before his brother raised his head. Sam hadn't been crying, as Adam had feared, but his face was pale, a tinge of blue around his lips. Adam removed his coat in slow, deliberate movements, then swung it around Sam's shoulders. The teenager made no move to accept the warmth, but let the thick fabric hang over his shoulders.

"Why did you come back? You can't make me better," he rasped.

"Something brought us back here. Some kind of creature. We didn't even think this was an option, or we would have… Hell, if we knew half of what we know now, Dean probably would have sold his soul to get you back years ago."

Sam kept staring straight ahead and the empty stare was starting to worry Adam. This whole thing was fucked up, their family, this life. He didn't want to have to watch his brother die, not when he could see it happening in slow motion. How had they all been so blind. "We would have brought you back," he said again, softly now.

"Why don't you ever let me choose?" The question was unexpected and razor edged.

Adam swallowed, feeling his gut lurch. "I don't—Sam, I didn't… We let you go, but don't think that what you… did was a choice. You didn't even say goodbye, didn't ask us for help. We would have—"

Sam looked at him at last, and there was some fire at last. "You can't help me. There's nothing you can do," he said, "Nothing will be different."

* * *

I'm sorry for the delay. I went looking for a Beta, but no one will answer me. If anyone wants to, or has any recommendations for a beta, could you please send me a PM? I really hate posting knowing I have typos. PLEASE REVIEW AND HELP THIS STORY FIND A BETA!


	6. Chapter 6

NINE YEARS AGO

Bobby opens his door to John Winchester and two of his boys. He assumes Sam is gathering his supplies from his car. The family looks like hell, and it's not the first time Bobby wishes the boys could stay with him, go to school, maybe get a hold of their own lives.

"John," he nods at the eldest Winchester.

Dean doesn't look at him, but nudges Adam into the house. The boys are unusually silent, and Bobby suddenly senses that something is wrong. John stays on the steps. He looks like he's in pain. Bobby can hear the Impala cooling in the yard, but there's no crunch of footsteps telling him Sam's on his way, or shuffle of weaponry as the boy collects his things.

And he knows.

"How?" he asks, as the world plummets away from his feet. "What did it?"

Bobby's not big on revenge, he knows when a battle is over. That's how he's survived this long anyway. You don't go on missions that end up killing more than what's already dead. But he needs to know, needs some kind of comfort.

"Sam's dead," John says, like it still needs explaining. Bobby just waits, he knows grief. He's seen enough of it now to know that touching John right now might end up with a fistfight. John looks drained. He's swaying on his feet, and he must have driven for the past two days.

"Come inside," Bobby says.

But John stays there by the door.

"He shot himself."

The night grew louder around them, or maybe it was just all the blood rushing through Bobby's head.

"We were right there. He just went past us, like he was coming back. I didn't see him take the gun, I swear Bobby. I swear to god, I didn't know. He didn't tell me… He didn't say anything."

Robert Singer looks out into the darkness. "Where is he?" he asks.

"I salted and burned him. After… after the funeral."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Bobby. I couldn't. The boys were—I don't think Adam understands, but Dean... Dean saw him. I had to drag him outta there. Christ, I didn't know what to do. I don't know what to say to them."

Bobby shakes his head and wants to back away, but he's needed here. He can see John trembling, feel the scream that's been building up in his friend.

"Get inside. Go find the boys. I'll get some food."

John nods and opens the door a little wider so John can come in.

He gets in one of the cars. He doesn't really notice which one, and for a moment he sits and looks out at the dark salvage yard.

"Dammit," he whispers, which really just sums up everything.

Mechanically he starts the car, and he pulls out of the yard. He drives, his eyes trained on the road. He stops at the grocery store, it's only nine o'clock. He grabs some fruit, water bottles, soda for the boys, some steaks, frozen vegetables, and canned foods. It's not enough. He gets cereal, and sugary snacks. Bags of chips, the kind that he hates, but that the boys always stare at when they go shopping.

"Having a party?" the cahier asks cheerfully as he stuffs everything into bags.

Bobby stares at him, because he doesn't know what to say.

He holds it together as he packs everything into the car, as he drives back, even as he gets into his own silent house and unpacks all the food.

I can do this, he thinks to himself. But the he turns around and realizes that Dean has been sitting at the kitchen table the whole time. The twenty year old looks devastated. His body in trembling and his eyes are fixed on nothing.

"People die every day," Dean whispers, turning his empty eyes on Bobby, "They die every day, and mostly they don't even know what kills them."

"Dean…" Bobby starts.

"This is all my fault, Bobby. I should have talked to him. I knew something was wrong, but I just didn't… see it."

"Dean…" he tries again, not sure what he wants from the boy.

Dean starts speaking, and Bobby has to lean on the counter because Dean is describing what Sam looked like, lying in some motel tub, with the gun across his chest and a hole through his head.

And Bobby realizes he can't do this, not now, not ever. He takes two long strides and hugs Dean, hard. This is going to change the eldest brother, and Bobby doesn't think he can bear that either.

"I'm sorry, son." He said, "I'm so damn sorry."

* * *

NOW

Dean met the Impala after an obligatory circuit of the forest, and was almost offended that there was someone else in the driver's seat. Except… well… there wasn't. He grimaced at his younger self. There was something smug about his younger face, he had an itch to wipe the look off with a few well-placed hits.

Adam would twist that into some long winded discussion about self-loathing and why Dean needed to adopt a more healthy perspective. The kid had been reading way too many self-help books. He was becoming Dean's therapist even when he wasn't in the room.

And then he was required to sit shotgun to a teenager, and that was humiliating. The fact that his younger self was a good driver did nothing to mollify him.

"So what happens in the future?" his barely-out-of-teens-self asked him, eyes twitching sideways to see his face. It was odd, how young he looked. Thin, untried, all soft and gooey on the inside. Sickening.

"It doesn't matter. If any of this is real, it'll all be different anyway."

"I think you stop taking showers when you're older." Adam chips in from the backseat.

"Shut up, Adam," young Dean snaps into the rearview mirror.

"He smells like a liquor store. And blood." The youngest Winchester was wrinkling his nose to illustrate his point.

"Yeah, at least I could still get the girls. You turn out all scrawny and weird looking."

"You're an asshole," Adam says, his face flushing. The word sounds awkward when it comes out of his mouth, like he's unused to it, "you turn out like dad."

"Shut the fuck up." Dean says, because not even Adam can do that to him. He is nothing like John Winchester.

Blessed silence reigns in the car.

"Buckle up Adam," young Dean says, and that should have been a warning, but Dean's still silently wishing he could kill all these ghosts and get back to stopping the apocalypse. He's taken completely by surprise when the car screams to a halt. The seatbelt digs into him, taking all of his breath.

He's sucking in air, trying to see what Young Dean had stopped for when a fist came from his left, hitting his nose at just the wrong angle.

"Nobody talks like that to my brothers," Young Dean Winchester says. He rears back as if he's going to punch his older self again.

The defense is instinctive. Dean strikes out and his knuckles push firmly into flesh, something gives. He released the seatbelt and tumbles out the door and he's outside. He gets to his feet in time to be tackled.

His younger self is fresh, and he hits where apparently he knows where to hurt. He goes directly for the liver, and the pain is sharp, unexpected.

Dean responds with a classic right hook to his own face, satisfied when he clips his opponent's broken nose. The young Dean's response it to knee him in the groin. He was fighting dirty with all the tricks high school had kept fresh in his mind.

It's almost cathartic to see his teenage face bloody and wild.

_ Sam's head is bloody and broken. The spray of blood against the wall, the bathtub, grimy and white. I did this. I did this. I killed you. I didn't mean it Sam. I didn't… Please don't…._

He tucks his limbs to his side and rolls away from the fight, springing to his feet when he feels like he's put enough distance between himself and the car. Young Dean hesitates just long enough for Dean to raise his hands in surrender, an unfamiliar gesture when there's this much adrenaline and anger running through his veins.

"Stop," he says, the word a wheeze in the back of his throat. "I'm sorry, kid. I didn't…"

Adam comes tumbling out of the car. "It's okay Dean!" he calls out, "He didn't mean it!"

That's his Adam alright. All young and hurt, but trying to pull everyone together. Taking it all on himself as if he could carry everyone else. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I just… I forgot."

* * *

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

"Mom?" He _knows_ it's her. There's not many pictures of her left, John has one he keeps in the journal, and Sam's vision of her is fuzzy. There's the impression of blonde hair and a wide smile. She looked… normal. Like the kind of life Sam wanted.

He wants to say something, to tell her how much he wanted to know her, to love her like Dean and John do, but his throat is swollen shut. She's smiling like the way he knew she would, and her eyes—he can suddenly see that she loves him. His heart aches with the knowledge. She _loves _him.

"Oh Sammy," she said, "Sammy, I wish…"

The blade spears through her chest, gliding like a sliver of pure light. Sam screams. He dropped his weapons and dove under her to catch her before she hit the ground. Blood slid down her white dress, soaking into his hand-me-down clothes.

"No!" he cries out, "No!"

Dean's next to him. "Sam," he said, "Sam, it's not her. You know it's not her."

He can't answer, he's too busy holding onto the inhuman corpse, cradling the monster's body.

After all, this is what raised him.

And that's when he realizes he's gone mad.

* * *

NOW

The bride groaned as another bicyclist ran over their heads. Adam had inched his way to Sam's side, trying to warm the boy up without actually touching him. An idea hits him.

"I'm going to call Bobby, okay?"

Sam looks up at that, panicked. "Don't tell him," he pleads.

"He already knows," Adam says gently, "Dean called him after we got here."

Adam still has one of John's spare phones, and thank god he's already called Bobby on it. Sam's looking at him with wide eyes. It's only two rings before Bobby picks up.

"John?" the gruff voice asks.

"It's Adam. The other Adam. And I'm with Sam."

"Which Sam?"

"There's," Adam has to clear his throat, "There's only one Sam, and yeah. He's from this…uh, timeline, I guess we're calling it."

"Sam?"

Adam shuts up, but listens. Sam is leaning closer to him to hear Bobby's voice through the receiver. His hand, wraps around the edge of Adam's coat as if he's finally trying to get warmer. Adam takes this as a good sign.

"Bobby?" Sam asks.

"Why didn't you call me, boy? I told you to call me if things got bad, I told you to—"

Adam breaks in, seeing the wall coming back to Sam's face. "He's fine," Adam reassures the old hunter, "we're just talking. Catching up."

"Listen to me Sam, do you want me to come down there and get you? You can come stay with me for a while, until we figure all this out."

Sam is silent for a long time. Adam can see his throat working, trying to put the words together. He holds his breath, hoping that Bobby doesn't interrupt. Maybe it would be good for Sam to stay at Bobby's. He always liked the yard. There were a thousand places to hide, a hundred dusty games that Bobby hoarded in the basement for them.

"I can't," Sam says, almost a whisper. Adam's surprised that Bobby hears him over the phone.

"Of course you can," Bobby coaxes, "I've already spoken to John, and you're all gonna come stay with me for a while, just like you used to over the summer."

"I don't wanna be here, Bobby." Sam says in a rushed, shuddery voice and Adam's freezing fingers clench reflexively around the phone.

"I'll come get you," Bobby says, sounding desperate.

"At the yard, I'll still be _here_."

Sams crying, but at least he's talking now. Adam heart feels like it's going to sink into the mud, battered and broken. "Don't say that, boy." Bobby says.

It seems like something has broken down now, and Sam can't seem to stop talking. "I thought it would be over by now. I didn't want to be here anymore, and I was… I was so close. Bobby, I can't do it anymore."

"Can't do what anymore?" Bobby asks gently.

Sam is sobbing, clutching at his sides as if he's holding himself together. Adam seizes his chance, and folds Sam down to his chest. Sam resists him for a minute, but when Adam doesn't let go, he collapses against his brother.

"It's okay," Adam says helplessly. "It's gonna be okay Sammy."

But he's from the future, and he knows that's probably not true.

* * *

_**Sorry for the delay! That is totally my bad! And I would say that it was unavoidable, but to be honest, I have just been really bad about time management lately.**_

_**PLEASE REVIEW!**_


	7. Chapter 7

They arrived back at the motel just before dark. The light turned the concrete blue, and the leaves black above their heads. The Impala was parked outside the room, as was John's. It was selfish of Adam, he knew, to want to keep a few more moments alone with Sam. He stopped their progress by the office. "Let's get some coffee first," he offered.

Sam nodded gratefully, keeping his eyes resolutely away from the accusing motel door.

Of course both Deans and John would be hysterical with fear at this point, though Adam had called ahead and told them he was bringing Sam back alive and unhurt.

The free coffee inside the registration office tasted foul, but it was warm, and it burned energy back into the both of them. They sat at one of the small tables where the free continental breakfast would be served in the morning. Sam's hand was clutched around the Styrofoam cup like a lifeline, and Adam grinned at him.

"What?" Sam asked, his face crinkling with distaste at the bitter liquid.

"Just remembering how much you loved coffee."

Sam put the cup down and sighed. He looked up, running his eyes over Adam like he was examining a suspect. It was a measuring glance, and Adam suddenly felt the itch of self-consciousness. "So… Adam, huh?" Sam asked.

"Yup." Adam shifted, drawing his sleeves over his hands, a gesture he thought he had lost in high school. He supposed all this nostalgia was creeping into his head, pulling him back through the years.

"I can see it, you know. You haven't changed much."

"Huh," Adam scoffed, "What about Dean?"

Sam smiled wryly, "Yeah, no. I don't think I'd have picked him out of a lineup."

"I don't know how that happened. I didn't realize how much he changed."

"What happened?" Sam asked, "When-after I…?"

Adam froze, but kept his eyes carefully on the coffee in front of him. "I told you. We got yellow eyes after I graduated. Dean wanted me to go back to school, but there wasn't much—"

"No," Sam interrupted, "I mean… what happened here? Did they leave me here?"

Adam glanced up at him at last, not sure what to tell him. He felt like every word he spoke was just… testing the ice, waiting for something to break and snap him out of this dream. He shrugged uncomfortably. "I was young at the time, but I remember the gunshot. It felt like it shook the whole room. It's all a bit… jumbled to me. Dean knows. God, he's my age now, isn't he?"

Sam nodded.

Adam ran a hand over his eyes, trying to remember that day. He had only been eleven. "There was another motel room, after the police station. A funeral, I remember, because I had no idea what was going on. I'd never been to a funeral before, and there wasn't enough people that knew us, but the priest was understanding. After all the paperwork was done, we gave you a hunter's funeral, and then yeah, we packed up. We went to stay with Bobby for a while. Dad left for a few months, we didn't even know if he was coming back. That's about it, really, until he picked us up again with a lead."

Sam nodded, his eyes distant as he picked at the edge of his cup. "It sounds strange. Like it's someone else's life."

"It doesn't have to be like that this time," Adam said, foolishly hopeful. "It's different already. We can fix it, get you some help-"

"You won't put me in a hospital. I would rather die."

"They can help, Sam—" Seeing Sam's expression, Adam stopped hastily, "but okay. We'll figure it out. You say no hospitals, there's no hospitals, but please don't… please try not to do that again. Let me help. Please."

Sam shrugged, a gesture that didn't exactly bring comfort to Adam, but he didn't want to push it. He had spent so much time reading up on depression, on how he could help, but it all failed him now. There was so much he didn't know about his older brother, and it had torn their family apart the last time. He didn't think he could handle it again, not up close and personal like this.

"C'mon," he said, "we've procrastinated as long as possible. We'll have to face them at some point."

Sam shrugged again, shrinking a little more into Adam's jacket. Seeing his brother closing off again, Adam smiled and nudged him a little. "Hey," he said quietly.

Sam looked up.

"I'm on your side. No matter what happens."

* * *

Now

The door opened as soon as they passed by the window to the motel room. It was his Dean who answered the door, and he had no eyes for Sam, but immediately looked Adam up and down for signs of injury. "You okay?" he asked roughly.

"Fine," Adam said, "What the hell happened to you?"

Dean was sporting one hell of a black eye, and his nose looked swollen, like someone had gotten a lucky strike. He scowled, but Adam could tell there was something different about him, something that had loosened. He looked tired, but not as… defeated.

"I'm fine."

"He's not," volunteered young Dean from the single motel chair, "he'd better not be fine, 'cause that means I didn't hit him hard enough."

"Enough Dean," snapped John. He had pulled Sammy away from Adam and was looking him over thoroughly. "What they hell were you thinking?"

"I'm sorry, sir." Sam whispered, his eyes planted firmly on the ground.

He flinched back as John swooped towards him, but was clearly taken aback as the elder hunter tugged him into a firm embrace. "Don't do that again," John said fiercely.

Adam shifted uneasily. John was never one to show affection or comfort, and definitely not fear or anxiety. This was all so different. Only hours ago, Dean and Bobby were the only family he had, and now there were four more Winchesters in the world. Their little family still together, still fighting.

He had to blink back the tears. Dean was tugging him away. "We've got a room next door."

"I'm not leaving, Dean."

"We'll come back," his brother promised, "But we need to get a base together, we need to figure this out."

* * *

Later

Sam lay with Adam curled against his stomach. His younger brother hadn't allowed that for a long time, but tonight he seemed to sense that Sam needed it as much as he did. Dean and John took shifts watching him, and sleep didn't come easy while he was under scrutiny.

John left to help the other Adam and Dean set up the wards in their room, and to get supplies for tomorrow. It was Adam who broke the silence after he left, as if he had been waiting all night for this moment.

"Did you try to leave?" he asked, whispering, though they both knew Dean was listening in.

Sam sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. Tears were threatening to fall again, and he wasn't sure he could hold back the sobs that were starting to stutter his breath.

"It's okay," Adam said, and for a moment Sam could hear the grown up Adam there, with his hard eyes and soft smile. The bur in his voice when he tried to be strong. He was going to grow up like… well, not like John. Not like Dean. He was going to become Adam.

And then the tears couldn't be held back. Sam tried to turn his face into the pillow, but was strapped between Adam's head and his own chest. The eleven year-old shifted, and Sam thought for a moment his little brother might be trying to leave, but Adam just turned around and wrapped his arms around his chest, digging his cheek to Sam's chest right over his heart.

_I'm so sorry,_ Sam tried to say, but the words wouldn't come. He kept remembering the bathroom, the cool porcelain against his back, the metal of the gun under his chin. He had pulled the trigger, felt the release as it sprang under his finger, one staccato beat that stunned and thrilled.

"It's okay," Adam repeated, patting Sam's back awkwardly. "It's okay."

Sam didn't even realize that Dean had joined them until he felt his weight on his back, and the muscular arms threading around them both. Dean smelled like machine oil and leather, the scent of home.

Dean's breath ruffled Sam's hair, tickling his ears.

"I love you," Dean told him quietly, so quietly that Adam couldn't hear the words. "But if you do that… I don't think I could… I won't survive it."

Sam clenched his eyelids together, forcing the tears out faster even as he tried to stop. How did he tell Dean that even while he lay here, between the two people he would do _anything_ for, he still hurt? He was still trapped, forced into a shape he couldn't hold.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, and he meant it.

But he couldn't imagine another day of this. The split second of relief he had felt while lying in that tub had been a hit of clarity, of _happiness_ even. He needed it again. His skin itched with the need and it pounded in his head.

* * *

Now

Adam paced the length of their motel room while Dean watched him warily from the edge of one of the beds. "What if we just leave it, Dean? What if we just let this one go?" Adam pleaded.

Dean shook his head, picking at a loose thread on the motel quilt. "We don't belong here. This isn't our time, that isn't our family."

"Not this again—"

"No," Dean said, holding up his hands in surrender, "I get it now. I understand what you were trying to say, but the fact is that we're here, and the apocalypse is still happening somewhere, or… sometime, I guess. Otherwise why would we remember it? Why would we even be alive right now?"

"And what if we just go back? What if Sam's never saved?"

Dean laid a hand on his shoulder, and Adam jerked up at the unfamiliar touch.

"Adam," he said, tightening his fingers, "Our Sam is dead. We are who we are, and everything we've been through has still happened to us _because_ Sam wasn't there. If he lives, there's no guarantee that he'll keep breathing, or that we will."

"So?" Adam snapped, taking Dean by surprise, "What has been so goddamn good about our lives that this won't make it just a little bit better? We're all so fucking miserable, taking jobs that nobody wants, losing people every day, never making friends because they'll end up being monsters, or eaten by monsters. I want this Dean, I just want this one thing."

"You have to listen to me," Dean said, now gripping both his shoulders, shaking him until their eyes met. "You're too close to this—"

"You're damn right!" Adam shouted, forcing Deans hands away, "I am close to this, because it's _Sam_. It's _Sam,_ Dean. It's our whole family right there, whole and alive. You think that's not worth protecting?"

"I'm not saying we don't…" Dean grimaced. "We will help them. That's what we do, but you have to get some distance and start thinking why we're here. This was a monster, remember, a blue freak who didn't seem that interested in doing us any favors."

"How do you know that? You know what day it was. Maybe it just… it gave us a second chance."

Dean looked down, sighing heavily. "Okay Adam. I'll keep an open mind. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let it go. If this is a djinn—"

Adam's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, "I'm not gonna do anything stupid," Dean reassured him with a wry smile. "I think we've had quite enough of that, but if it is a djinn or something else, I need you behind me when we kill it or leave."

Adam sighed, suddenly exhausted. The bad coffee burned at his stomach, threatening to climb back up his throat. The entire day had been an emotional train wreck. He had been high and low so many times he didn't know how to feel right now. Sam was alive, maybe? Dean wasn't drunk, and that talk with Sam had only confused him more.

"I need to sleep," he told his eldest brother. "I think I just need some sleep."

Dean nodded. "I'm going to stay up a while, do some research. I'll wake you if anything happens."

Adam slid back onto the bed, and smiled as he felt Dean start unlacing his shoes. "You doing research?" he muttered, "Maybe this is a dream."

"Shut your mouth, and go to sleep."

_**I'm sorry, I was feeling very linear today, so this chapter turned out rather chronological. I don't know whether that's a good or bad thing. REVIEWS SAVE LIVES and are rewarded with virtual baby sloths.**_


	8. Chapter 8

_Dead Sammy, live Sammy, what's it gonna be? Flip a coin, roll some dice, let's play the cards and see:_

* * *

NOW

The whole family ate the continental breakfast together in the seedy motel office. They picked at their food, barely raising their eyes at each other. Both Deans and John had deep shadows under their eyes.

"Boys?" John leaned back as young Sam, Adam, and Dean shifted to attention.

Even after all this time, Adam felt himself start to straighten, ready for orders. He smiled wryly at his food, forcing himself to relax. John wasn't talking to him, but to the actual 'boys'. Though Adam was only a little older than past-Dean, he felt much, much, much older.

John continued, "You're going to Bobby's. You'll wait at the motel until he gets here. I'll take these two to a psychic, try and get this mess sorted out. School can wait, I've already called them."

It's young Dean who reacts first. "You're leaving us? With Bobby? After last night?"

"It's a hunt. We have to make sure that…. That what Sam… did… it doesn't happen. We have to find out what's happening, and the surest way we can do that is to control this situation."

"You can't leave Sam now!"

"Dean," Sam mumbled, his fork buried in some rubbery scrambled eggs, "Leave it. He's right."

"No." To everyone's surprise it was Future-Dean. "We're not leaving each other alone. We'll all go to Bobby's if that's what it takes. He's what? Three, four days away?"

"Last time we made it in two," Adam mumbled into his food, then stopped. The entire table had stilled. "Sorry," he said, his face flushing.

"Tell the psychic to meet us at the Yard. It's neutral ground," Dean continued, "but I need to talk to Sam alone before we head there."

John put his knife and fork down. "That's not gonna happen."

Adam groaned. _Winchesters_. As easygoing as a bag of cats.

* * *

Nine Years Ago

When Adam was young, he thought Sam was the best person to have ever walked the earth. Sam was mother and brother. Sam was smarter than John, he helped Adam with homework and never got angry. Sam was funny in a clever way too, not like Dean's up-front, dirty humor.

Sam understood when something was wrong, and he always knew how to fix it.

He showed Adam how to make cards for Fathers' Day, Valentine's Day, and Christmas. He never missed a school play. He knew when something was important.

Adam knew that Sam would never let him down, because the middle Winchester _knew_ what it was like to be let down. That made Adam's chest ache sometimes, when it suddenly became clear how many things John and Dean didn't deem important.

Silly things like school projects were laughable to Dean and invisible to their father. Adam would stay up late gluing, cutting, and painting with Sam, glowing in the reflected happiness and pride of his closest brother. Sam liked being recognized for good work, by teachers, by classmates, and especially by his family.

Sam liked getting things right.

Adam knew this in his bones. It never had to be explained to him. It was much a fact of his life as daytime TV, and his father's lengthy absences. It translated directly into their hunting life after all. Sam would pour over ancient books on loan from Bobby, looking for ever more creative ways to keep them all safe. He's practice exorcisms, and a few spells when John was away.

Before his brother died and their little family had gotten lost, Adam thought he understood Sam. Sam was home, and comfort, and safety.

After Sam died, Adam stayed with Bobby for almost a year. Dean stayed for about two months before joining John on the road. They returned to the yard once or twice a month to re-supply and research.

Dean was never too busy to phone at night, and he kept Adam up to date on what they hunted. The heart had gone though, it was like none of them knew what they were fighting for anymore.

Bobby didn't take any jobs while Adam stayed with him. He fixed cars in the front yard while Adam studied at a table he'd set up in the garage. The best days were when it rained and the garage door would be open up to a thick sheet of water, droplets pounding on the roof, and the tinny strains of Bobby's music almost lost in the noise. It'd be cold, but Bobby would have the space heater on.

Loneliness had never been a part of Adam's life before. Privacy was lost when you shared motel rooms with two brothers. It had never been silent or still before. Comfortable, yes, familiar and happy, but never… serene.

It had been a formative experience, learning and living without expectation. It gave him time to think. He never thought about Sam, he just couldn't let this thoughts wander there yet. Sam was gone with a noise—a gunshot.

It echoed in his dreams and he'd wake up with a start, staring at the clock next to his bed.

But he didn't let himself remember anything else.

He threw himself into studying, mostly biology and chemistry—anatomy mostly. He quickly overtook Bobby's mentorship with medical supplies. When a hunter came in bloody or beaten, Adam became the one to determine if a hospital was needed. He helped them when he could, and made sure they were comfortable on the way to the hospital if he couldn't.

In that one year, he learned about pain, and hope. He learned about the limits of both. He was nearly thirteen when John's friends gave him the nickname 'Doc'. Silly for a little kid, and there was more amusement in the title than respect, but Adam took it. Between that and the semi-continuous Doogie Houser references, he felt like he finally had a purpose.

When Dean came back after every hunting trip a little more closed off, Adam picked up every book he could on coping with grief and anger. Between John and Dean, Adam could write his own book on functioning alcoholics and how to deal with them.

Then he went hunting with his brother and father. His knowledge was much appreciated in the field. Years passed with Adam learning more and more about to help people. Even after he realized what had happened to Sam, he kept going, getting better and better. Five years passed and the Yard became a base of operations. John took more and more time to himself to hunt the Yellow-eyed demon.

Dean and Adam started to hunt together, always in range of the Yard.

"Ever thought about going to college?" Bobby asked one evening, watching Adam stitch Dean's Wendigo wounds closed.

Adam shrugged.

"You could make a good doctor," the older hunter said gruffly.

"I am a good doctor," Adam returned with mock outrage.

Bobby swatted a hand at him, but Adam moved his head out of the way before the blow could connect with his ears. "You could get a license—" Bobby tried again.

"Since when have needed those?"

Dean snorted and took another pull on the bottle of whiskey John kept for emergencies. "Dean," Adam warned, "That's not going to help you heal."

"Like hell," Dean said with closed eyes, "If I pass out, you won't have to worry about your precious stitches tearing."

"Boy's got a point," Bobby said.

"Yeah, well he doesn't need any more excuses to drink," Adam muttered.

"Shut up, Doogie Houser," Dean said, then winced as Adam pulled a flake of man-talon from the gash. "Alrightalright!" he said quickly, "Sorry! Jesus!"

But he took another gulp before setting the bottle aside, and Adam set his jaw.

* * *

Now

Dean had fought for the half an hour he got with Sam before all six of them headed up to Bobby's. He only got that time under the assurance that John would be watching within earshot, and Sam wouldn't run. The Adams and younger Dean had gone to go get supplies for the road.

Dean leaned against the Impala and watched Sam kick up the gravel that made up the motel's parking lot. He wished he knew what to say.

"I'm sorry," he tried at last, gruffly.

"For what?"

"I don't know."

They studied the gravel underfoot for a moment. Dean wished he had a beer. Words came easier when there was alcohol involved. He cleared his throat. "You got into Stanford."

"How did you—" Sam grimaced, then nodded. "The letter."

"Yeah. We found it about two years after. Pre-law, huh?"

"Yeah."

It had always bothered Dean. "Why law? You never said you were into that kind of thing."

Sam shrugged. "Lawyers help people."

"For money."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's not about that."

"Then what? You're a smart kid, Sam. You can do anything you like."

"I wasn't going to go—"

Dean snorted. "Yeah, we all know how that turned out."

"Stop saying that! I'm fine! Look," Sam swung his hands out aggressively, "Not dead!"

Dean clenched his fists to his sides. "That doesn't work for me, Sammy—"

"Don't call me Sammy."

Dean ignored him. "You died. I remember it. I remember having to live with it. I have spent _years_ trying to stop asking myself what I would have done differently. Dammit Sam, I'm trying to help you!"

Sam's hands dropped to his sides. Dean rubbed a hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. "Look, I just want to know what you want."

For a moment, silence reigned over the parking lot.

When Sam started to speak, his voice was soft, as if he didn't want to break that silence. "When I was little, I used to imagine we were a normal family, when we were in school, I mean. The lies we had to tell the teachers, and our friends, they became easier to believe the more I repeated them. Why we moved so often, why we were injured all the time…"

He paused for such a long moment that Dean thought he might have finished, but the older Winchester just couldn't bring himself to break his brother's train of thought. Eventually Sam's voice picked up again, but it was trembling.

"For twelve hours a day I got to pretend that hunters didn't exist, and then when I got back to you and Adam and dad, I had to remember it all over again, how much I'd seen, how much we had all lost, and I thought… I thought about what normal Sam would be doing. He'd be sleeping, or doing homework, or watching TV instead of picking buckshot out of his family members_._"

"Sam—"

"I just… That Sam would go to college. He'd become a lawyer, because that's what normal kids dream about. But what would I actually do at college, with the other twelve hours I had to remember?" Now Sam really was crying. "I'd have to leave you and Adam behind, even dad. Who would I be if I didn't have you guys? What would I do?"

"Pick up a hobby?" Dean tried.

Sam dashed the tears from his face angrily. "Fuck you, Dean."

"Sorry," Dean said, but it was the first time Sam had called him by his name. He reached out and gripped the teenager by the nape of his neck and drew him close. Sam resisted only for a moment. Hell, Dean was almost a stranger to him, but he came anyway.

They stood there for a few minutes while Sam tried to control his sobs, but Dean held him close. Sam smelled like peppermint, paper, and dust. Dean hadn't remembered that until now. Sam was his baby brother, one of the foundations of his existence.

He wouldn't move if the entire world collapsed around their heads.

"Kid," he said roughly, "I don't understand this. I never had a choice. I never wanted one, because all I've ever wanted to do is protect you and Adam. You're my normal, Sam."

The front of his shirt was wet where Sam had his face pressed to his collarbone. Dean closed his eyes. The war seemed so far away right now. Blue-skinned creatures and angels, they didn't matter right now. This was _Sam_.

"But I've lived in a world without Sam Winchester, and it's not a place I want to go back to. Go be a lawyer if you want to, or stay with Bobby for a few years. I'd rather you left and were safe, than… Shit."

Dean pushed Sam away reluctantly. "But Sam, we need to talk. There are some things you need to know."

Sam wiped his face and stumbled back a little. "What?"

"When you were six months old…"

* * *

_Well, there's that. I'm sorry for such a long time between updates, and then to break the silence with such a boring chapter! Beyond rude of me, I'm so sorry. I keep thinking that in the next chapter I'll finish it, but then I read that chapter and I think... that's just not enough time to say everything that needs to be said. So if you're still reading, settle down for another 2 to 3 chapters of angsty backstory and Sam!whump. Also some Dean!Sadness and Bad!Choices on pretty much everyone's part. As always! TELL ME WHAT YOU WOULD LIKE TO SEE AND I CAN MAKE IT HAPPEN! THAT'S THE BEAUTY OF THIS SYSTEM!_

_Still looking for a Beta BTW, so if you think you're up for the task, please PM me._


	9. Chapter 9

Three Years Ago

Adam finishes his senior year. He walked across the stage, and felt a little thrill or pride when he sees Bobby waiting for him on the other side. The hunter is grinning like Adam has never seen before. Adam wants to think that graduating high school is not a big deal, but it's hard when Bobby is this happy. If this were really important, he'd have to be disappointed that Dean and John aren't there.

But he's not. He tells himself. He's glad they're hunting, doing something useful.

He accepts his diploma with a smile, and a nod to the audience.

_Sam would be so proud._

The thought hits him out of nowhere like a blow that sinks right into his gut. It feels like a panic attack, but he has to move. He stumbles off the stage and back to his seat. He's one of the last to go of course, alphabetically he's been screwed since childhood.

He's nauseated. Sam never graduated, but he'd been accepted to law school. Adam had applied to schools for pre-medicine just to see if he could get in, and he kept the acceptance letters in his duffel. Not as options of course, but just… reminders.

_If Sam were here…_

Even if he went to college, he'd have come to Adam's graduation. He'd be out in the center of all the parents whooping and clapping. Maybe he'd have a wife or girlfriend…

He barely registers what's happening when he throws his cap and retreats to Bobby's side. The old hunter senses what's wrong, but he smiles and gives Adam a rare hug. "I'm so proud of you, boy."

Adam smiles back. "Thanks Bobby. Thanks for coming."

Bobby drove. Adam had packed before heading out that morning. He only had two duffels. One of clothes and one of books, medical kit, and weaponry. He threw them into Bobby's truck and they set out right after the ceremony, though Bobby had wanted Adam to go to the after party and lock-in at the local arcade.

"It's not really my thing," Adam said.

He didn't want to say goodbye to his friends. He had made more than usual this year, but they would be talking about where they were going and what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives. They wouldn't understand.

The drive from Orlando Florida to Sioux Falls, South Dakota was a long one, but Bobby was prepared. He had strapped a cooler of beer into the back of the truck, and had stocked up on road-trip food. Mostly beef jerky, but there were a few sandwiches there too.

They drove to music on the radio, and laughed over stories of Adam as a child.

Adam kept checking his phone, waiting for Dean to call. He knew it was graduation today. He had said he would call, but last Adam had heard, Dean sounded tense, desperate about something. He had refused to admit that anything was wrong, only that he was close to finding their father.

"Still nothing?" Bobby asked.

"No." He worried about his brother and father too much these days. Between John's mysterious disappearance, and Dean's suddenly manic desire to find him, Adam almost couldn't remember how to relax.

They stopped at a park and Bobby got the cooler and a couple of camping chairs. He held a beer out to Adam, who eyed it distastefully. "Come on," Bobby said, exasperated, "We're celebrating!"

Adam laughed ruefully and accepted the bottle. "I wish I had a good influence in my life for a change," he teased.

"You're enough of a saint already, boy."

They toasted and both drank deeply before settling into their seats. Adam picked idly at the label on his bottle, peeling back the paper in long strips. It was peaceful out here. The grass was rough and patched, but the air was cool and heavy, promising a strong rain.

He closed his eyes.

The first few bars of Led Zeppelin's 'Travelling Riverside Blues' screeched from his phone. He fumbled in his pockets while Bobby held his beer for him. "Dean!"

Static answered him. "Dean?"

"It's me."

Adam frowned and straightened, as if John could see him. "Sir?" he asked cautiously. Bobby frowned. So Dean had found their father after all.

The pause was again significant. "Dad?" Adam tried again.

"There was an accident. We're in St. Mary's Hospital Jefferson City, Missouri."

Adam's vision narrowed. _Dean. Why wasn't Dean calling?_ When had it gotten so dark? How much time had they wasted?

"Where's Dean?" he asked breathlessly.

Bobby was packing up, emptying the beers out and folding up the chairs. Still there was silence on the line.

"Dad? Where's Dean?"

"It doesn't look good."

The line went dead.

* * *

They were on the road in under a minute.

"Please drive faster." Adam said tersely.

He had his eyes closed, as if that could make the distance smaller. He had a hand clenched around his phone. He couldn't call again. Unless they called him, he wouldn't reach them. It was a ten hour drive to Jefferson City from the park. Thank god they had gotten some distance from Orlando.

Still, Adam hated being so far away from his family. Why had he been so far away? Why had he put his foot down to finishing the year in Orlando? It didn't matter if he finished high school or had to repeat the year further north.

He would be with Dean right now.

Bobby didn't say anything on the drive. He didn't even ask for directions, but seemed to know exactly where they were headed. Adam bent double in an attempt to stop his shaking. He felt so helpless. He didn't know what was happening. He didn't know who or what to fight.

He didn't know if he was going to be too late.

Time passed incredibly slowly. Adam couldn't look at the road, for fear he would see how slowly they were going. He focused on his shoes. The darkness around the car deepened. The engine hummed underneath them, a constant, reassuring grumble.

Led Zeppelin shattered the sickening calm. Adam snapped the phone open and up to his ear.

"Adam," it was John.

"Dad, what's happened?"

"It's going to be okay Adam." John was eerily calm. That did nothing to slow Adam's pounding heart.

"Dean? How's Dean?" he asked urgently.

"He'll be fine."

Adam drew in a ragged breath. He was so relieved he couldn't find the words to thank a god or question his father. John seemed to understand anyway.

"I love you," he said gruffly.

"Love you too, dad," Adam said. He wiped a shaky hand across his face and let out a huff of hysterical laughter. "Bobby and I are on our way. We'll be there around dawn."

There was a harsh, ragged sound that Adam couldn't immediately recognize. He flinched away from the static. It took him a moment to realize his father had let out a breath like a sob.

"Dad?" he asked.

The line went dead.

* * *

John (3 Years ago)

In the hospital's boiler room, John finished the chalk circle. He said his incantations quickly, his hands steady over the candles and black bowl. He slid a knife across his palm, draining it into the bowl. Finally he lit the match and drops it in. The sand flared brightly, then extinguished.

He stood. Looking around for the demon.

A hand shot out of the darkness, clenching on his shoulder.

John spun around to see an angry looking security guard. "What the hell are you doing here, buddy?" the stranger asked.

John pulled the colt from the shadows. "How stupid do you think I am?"

The demon's eyes glowed. "You really want an answer to that?"

Two possessed men stalked from the darkness on either side of the standoff and took positions behind John.

"_You_ conjuring me, John? I took you for a lot of things, but suicidal wasn't one of them. Shouldn't be surprised really, runs in the family I guess."

"I could always shoot you," John said evenly. _Don't let it shake you. It doesn't matter._

"You could always miss." It laughed. "And you've only got one try. Did you think you could trap me?" It tutted patronizingly.

"Oh," John shook his head, "I don't want to trap you."

He lowered the gun. "I want to make a deal."

The demon's eyes narrowed, now truly surprised. A smile was slow to spread across his features. The four of them were standing in a circle around the summoning symbol.

"It's unseemly, making deals with devils. How do I know this isn't just another trick?" the demon asked.

"It's no trick," John said grimly, "I will give you the Colt and the bullet, but you've got to help Dean. You've got to bring him back."

"Why, John. So sentimental! Where was this side of you when poor little Sammy got sucked into hell?"

John had been expecting something like this, but it still shook him to the core. "You're lying." He said.

"The demon's eyes glittered in the half darkness. "Am I? We all know where suicides go. And we both know what else he was meant to be. Who can forget little Sammy at the arrival's gate? Delicious boy, and a _Winchester_, you know we needed one of those around the place."

"Take the trade. You care a hell of a lot more about this gun than you do Dean."

"Don't be so sure. He killed some people very special to me," for a moment, anger did play around the demon's face, but the expression was soon forced away. "Still, you're right. He isn't much of a threat. But aren't you going to deal for Sammy? I'll throw him in the bargain, free of charge."

John lowered his head and clenched his hand around the grip of his weapon.

"Oh," the demon whispered maliciously, "that's _harsh._ So you knew the truth about Sammy? And the other… candidates?"

"Yes."

"I'm almost tempted to go animate him right now, see if you can bring yourself to end him all over again. That's _entertainment_. You must have been so relieved when he ate that bullet, I wonder if your boys know how much you hated and feared Sammy."

"Can you bring Dean back? Yes or no?"

"No."

John deflated, for once he felt uncertain. Those comments about Sammy had felt like punches to the gut. He had thought—

"But I know someone who can. Let's deal, John Winchester."

* * *

Adam (3 years ago)

They had driven all night, and still they had arrived too late. Dean was awake and walking around despite the doctor's earnest directives for him to stay in bed. Adam had no focus for anything else. He slammed into Dean with a hug like a bear trap.

"You bastards," he sobbed into Dean's jacket, "You goddamn _fuckers."_

_ "_Sorry," Dean said. His voice was ragged and monotone, but he was hugging back almost painfully. They hung like that for a few minutes before Bobby found them. Dean pulled away first.

Adam wiped a hand over his face. "Where is he?" he asked.

Dean shrugged. "The morgue. We'll get him out of here before the insurance turns up red flags."

Adam frowned. Dean looked different. He had kept a hand on Adam's shoulder, and the grip he had was crushing. "What happened?"

"Dad dealt. For me."

Bobby sucked in a breath, and Adam felt a foundation of his life crumble away to dust. _Dad was dead_.

But Dean was alive.

"What do we do now?" he asked breathlessly.

Dean looked down at him, his expression unreadable. "We hunt down the sonofabitch that killed our parents."

"Did he say anything?" Bobby asked at last, still standing in the doorway.

Dean turned to him. "Yeah," he said, "but it doesn't matter now."

* * *

NOW

"I'm the antichrist," Sam said, "And dad wants to kill me."

He felt strangely detached. Yes. It made sense. It felt _right_. He wanted to be sick. His stomach hurt with the effort to hold down what little breakfast he had managed to swallow that morning. They had gone way past the half hour John had allotted them, but did that matter? Did anything matter?

"No," Dean said angrily. They had ended up sitting on the curb by the motel room because Sam's legs had been too weak to keep him upright. He felt lightheaded. "You're just a vessel, and Dad just thinks he might have to kill you. He didn't know about the seals… or maybe he did. But he doesn't _know_ what you'll become."

"Some kind of demonic… vampire soldier."

"Not every Yellow-eyes kid drank demon blood. Most of the ones we met had no idea there was anything supernatural going on in the world besides… you know… their powers. It's only after Dad died that we started to see them juiced up. Most were just good people that got corrupted by demons."

"But they did go bad. The ones you found."

Dean hesitated. Sam felt the silent affirmation. "They had reasons, Sammy."*

_And I don't?_

* * *

_*Not including Andy in this. RIP Andy._

_PS. Sorry again for a stagnant chapter. Needed to put some backdrop for what Sam's gonna do next._


	10. Chapter 10

_Okay, you guys ready for shit to get weird? Get a soda, and a couple of cookies, and lets do this shit._

THEN

They sat on the curb as Sam took everything in.

John cleared his throat, alerting the brothers to the fact that he had come up behind them. Dean had heard him coming, but Sam jumped.

"You done?" their father asked. It wasn't clear who he had addressed the question to.

Dean kept his eyes on the gravel. "No," he said.

"It's been over an hour."

Dean rubbed his eyes. Hard. "I know. A lot of things needed to be said."

"What did you tell him?"

"Right here, dad," Sam grumbled.

"Everything."

John looked at him hard. "Everything," Dean repeated softly.

"Sam, go inside."

"Dad, I know—"

"Go inside damnit!"

Sam jerked back, and Dean looked up. A familiar surge reeled up inside his chest. He had to fight the urge not to stand and report, to try and draw the attention away from Sam.

Dean closed his eyes. Those days were long gone.

He felts Sam's hesitation, the unspoken plea for Dean to tell their father that Sam should stay. Dean said nothing, and there was a rush of air on his neck as Sam got to his feet and stalked away. _Such a drama queen._

The smile that played at his lips felt strange and sad.

"You knew I would tell him," Dean said at last, when he had heard the motel door close.

John moved to stand in front of him.

"You had me do your dirty work for you," Dean said bitterly. "You just didn't have the guts to tell him yourself."

"Tell him what? That I would likely have to kill him in the future? That he was going to turn into something that his father and brothers would one day have to hunt? I wasn't ever going to tell him."

"Sam needs to know the stakes."

"Does he? How sure are you that what brought you back was doing us a favor?"

"You mean stopping Sam from killing himself? What, that work also too dirty for you?"

John hesitated. "No."

"So what then? What was your plan? Kill him in his sleep when he goes to college? Make sure he never leaves the cage you made for him?"

"Sam's not going anywhere."

Dean snorted.

John kicked at the gravel, scuffing his boots, and stirring white stone dust into the air. "What am I supposed to do then? Let him go? He's got demons after him, demons that can take his girlfriends, his teachers, his friends. The number of wards I have to put up, every goddamn time we move—And it never stops them. Not for long. I don't know what poison they've been putting in his head when I'm not there—"

"Sam's a good kid. He can make his own choices."

"Clearly."

"Suicide's not a choice."

John was silent. Dean finally looked up, taking in his father's too-old-too-young face. "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. It's not any better without him."

John took a breath, a short, sharp one. He looked down, then up, then at his hands, which Dean noticed for the first time were shaking. "We wouldn't have to kill him," John said quickly.

And then he let his breath out and he swayed. He was pale and sweating in the cold air.

Dean got to his feet, and was surprised to find that he wasn't angry. Somehow he had known this was going to happen—that this is what John had always thought. How many bottles of liquor had fueled the raging debate in this man's head in the last few years?

Sam had killed himself, and John hated himself for being relieved.

"Maybe," John cleared his throat, "Maybe it's for the best if he… if he can choose to end it his own way."

Dean looked at him blankly.

* * *

Sam let the fall back into place, slowly, carefully. He couldn't listen or watch anymore.

* * *

"It's not a _choice_, dad," Dean advanced slowly. "Sam thinks he doesn't have any _options_. He made a decision. And it was a bad one—one that no one should ever have to make. Just because we can sit in the darkness, just because _we _can live like this, it doesn't mean that Sam can. He's not at fault, or stupid, or crazy. He just can't see a way out_."_

* * *

Always

Their father had been secretive, and manipulative. Hunters survived by grifting, and John just hadn't known when to put down the act.

John never allowed them to believe in a safety net. The danger was immediate and it was everywhere. Everything was coming at once, and being prepared was only half the battle, you had to go out and attack first.

Find the monsters, and hit them while you had the leverage or the surprise.

But Dean had learned one thing in the past few years of hell. John had been wrong about some things.

The lesson wasn't earth shattering, he was only a man after all, but Dean's life had been based around his father's rules for as long as he could remember.

But he had been wrong to keep information from his sons, from Bobby. Cryptic clues and clandestine solo missions were not how the hunting game was meant to be played. Hunters depended on information and trust. They bartered with it, survived by it. When you can only kill some enemies with ancient bones, or silver, or blood-drawn sigils, you _had_ to know what you were dealing with.

* * *

Then

_Dean,_

_ I'm sorry._

Sam tapped the pen against his chin, staring into the middle distance. He just wasn't good with words. Everything sounded… stilted. Adam would have been great at this, but what could Sam do? Ask him for a critique on his suicide note?

He cringed at the thought… At the name given to this piece of torn note-book paper. _Suicide note_. Why did he feel like he needed one now? What more was there to say than 'I'm sorry?'

_I love you._

_I can't_

I can't what? The list was endless, and it started with things like 'breathe' and 'live.'

They were going to be so angry. They were going to be so… sad. Sam leaned over the desk and slammed his head onto the desk. Fuck.

_Fuck._

He tore the paper into strips and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

_Dean,_

_ I'm __so__ sorry._

Fuck.

His hands trembled.

The door opened and Sam whipped around, his hands slamming over the evidence.

"Bobby's here!" Young Adam announced, bouncing in through the door with his hands full of shopping bags. Dean came in behind him and stopped at the sight of Sam sitting alone in the semi-darkness.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked.

Sam raised his eyebrows innocently and worked his throat. _Fucking words_. "Nothing!" he said, his voice a squeak. His brother stared at him suspiciously, and once again Sam couldn't help but notice the differences between this Dean and the one that had been through hell.

_Does he know? Does he know what's in store for him?_

But there was no time for that thought to sink in because Bonbby appeared at the door, and Sam unwisely tried to smile. He could feel it twisting on his face, the misery betraying him. He needed to act _happy_ dammit!

He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, really.

Bobby was suddenly there, wrapping him in a bear hug. "Sam—"

And then Sam couldn't do anything else. He sobbed into Bobby's shirt. "I'm sorry," he tried to say—he couldn't stop saying it, but the words were so garbled he had to keep trying again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. _I'm sorry."_

"It's okay, boy. It's going to be okay."

_Lie. A lie. It's all going to go so horribly wrong. Did you know that I'm supposed to end the world, that my whole family dies, that I'm addicted to demon blood. That I killed my mother, and probably all my friends? Did you know that I'm a demon?_

_ It doesn't matter. Tonight I'm leaving. _

_ Tonight I'll wait for them to sleep, and then I can go._

* * *

They ate dinner and Bobby talked about the changes he had made to the yard. The conversation was delicate. John and Old Dean avoided each other's gaze, but Sam's eyes kept catching on the two older Winchesters.

Would it be a comfort to John now, to know that Sam was going to take responsibility?

He talked cheerfully with Bobby and ten-year old Adam about the road trip they would take tomorrow. It was no trouble at all to use the correct pronouns. Tomorrow _we_ will have to go pick up snacks and gas for the road.

But every time, there was an electric buzz. Tomorrow _you_willhave to pick up salt and gasoline.

It was a hedonistic pleasure, a frightening thrill that flipped his stomach and shocked him with vertigo. SO much better than a rollercoaster. Sam was high, flying on a fucking kite. He had given up on the note. It's not like he had anything left to announce.

_Salt and burn my bones. Salt and burn my bones._

"This is really good, Bobby," Sam said.

Bobby beamed. "Good to see you eating. You're looking like a wendigo there."

_Salt and burn my bones. Salt and burn my bones._

Sam laughed a little too heartily, and the conversation waned as all five Winchesters watched him carefully.

_Tonight._

He grinned down at his plate, at the dish Bobby had carefully prepared for him. He had helped prepare it—had carefully sifted the mash potatoes.

He'd be prepared this time. No time-travelling brothers could make him miss.

* * *

Now

Bobby sat down to read in a chair, a small heap of books on the table beside him. John and Dean had protested that they could take the first watch, but they were all feeling effects of the mashed potatoes now.

Sam crawled obediently into bed, closely followed by his Dean and Adam. The other two sat at the table, talking quietly with Bobby, probably about that blue skinned creature.

_Good luck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

The lights turned out one by one.

Bobby's head slammed down onto the desk. Sam winced and hissed in sympathy.

"Time we went to…" the Older Adam started, his words slurring together. Sam looked up in time to see his younger-older brother try to stand from his chair and collapse onto the ground.

"Adam?" Older dean asked, his voice wavering. "What-?"

Sam sat up, his Adam was fast asleep. His Dean was looking at him, his face starting to register with horror. "Sam, Sam what did—"

"I'm so sorry," Sam said.

There was the sound of shattering glass from the bathroom and John emerged, his shirt wet with water. "Boys," he started uncertainly, and fell to his knees. "Boys there's something—"

"I'm sorry," Sam repeated, looking to his father now, "I'm so sorry. I'm going to fix it I promise."

"Sam, don't, just… fucking… Just don't." Dean said, the older Dean. He was trying to resist, but Sam had been thorough.

"I'm so sorry."

"Wait. Sam, just wait—" His eyes closed involuntarily. John's torso fell to the floor like a sack of meat. "Sam—wait."

But his voice was fading, mumbling to silence.

"Sam…Please… Don't."

Sam switched off all the lights and lay back down between Adam and Dean. He closed his eyes for a single moment, savoring this last memory, this last moment on earth.

If he was going to hell, he felt he needed this strength.

And then something happened.

-_Come_.

Sam started in bed and scrambled back as he realized something was standing at the foot of his bed. There was not much light in the room, only a dim glow from the bathroom tucked away in the corner. It was barely enough to see the silhouette of a massive man standing at the end of the bed.

And his skin was blue.

* * *

_A Super long Author's note. Skip if you hate sob-story biographies. There's not going to be a quiz._

So as soon as I finish this story I'm going to go back and reply to everyone's reviews, but there are some that I think shouldn't wait. And there are reasonable reasons for that.

So.. some of you are reacting quite strongly to some of the issues I bring up in this fic: namely le suicidal ideation.

And that is fine, and great, after all that is a big reason of why I posted this story. But I feel like I should tell you that I am a super happy person. I even occasionally wear colors like pink and yellow, but I am one of those social pariah- one of the Great Depressed. How can I be happy and wear bright colors you ask? How can you function in a normal society and use words like 'bombastic' in everyday life when you are plagued by mental issues of such a degree? And the answer is: I told someone. A doctor. The first person I have ever revealed to that I was planning on ending my life, and had been planning to do so for over six long years.

And I took a ride in an ambulance. And spent about an hour of my life telling a woman in a power-suit that I didn't want to hurt anyone but myself. I lost 90% of my body's moisture from my eyes. I lied, and wheedled, and smiled nervously, and played card-games with some of the sweetest, most interesting people on the planet. A burly orderly showed me how to braid bracelets.

I learned what a code white was, and how booty-juice was administered.

And a bald man with really cool shoes asked me stupid questions that were really hard to answer.

I had good days.

And bad days.

And days where I felt nothing.

But the point is, I got better. Sometimes I'm even happy, and I couldn't really remember what that felt like before I went to the hospital. It had been over ten years since I had felt anything close to it. So please. Please. If you are considering anything close to this, If you feel like you're suffocating on unshared tears, tell a doctor, or a police officer, someone that can get you to a safe place with people you can trust. No matter how shallow or deep your rabbit hole is, there's someone that can help you find your way out, and make it worth your while.

It's worth it to be happy, even if you never lose your obsession.

But if you're not quite ready to take that leap of faith, and you want the anonymity of the internet, you can always reach me at AngstyAly at gmail dot com. I want to help.


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